Names
by Lady Domino
Summary: Sing a song of sixpence, misery and woe... Chapter Eighteen finally up! Please R&R!
1. Decisions

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Rating: T

Summary: It's the Summer after Sixth Year. Draco Malfoy's just quietly living in his manor trying to pretend the outside world no longer exists when an unexpected visitor drops in. The thing is, this visitor didn't plan on being there either. But he needs help or all hope for the future will be lost.

Warnings: Strong violence, language, death.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, they belong to J. K. Rowling. The Harry Potter films belong to Warner Bros. I am not making any money off of this and I write with the sole intention to entertain. However, any characters that appear which are not in the books or films are mine, and should not be plagiarised.

A/N: Yeah, this is quite a confusing, plunge into the action, first chapter. All will be explained in later chapters, when everybody is finally safe and has time for talking.

Decisions

I eventually found him in the kitchen. Curled up in the corner, on the floor, with his back against the sink. His shirt all mussed up and his wrist dripping with what looked like blood. He was small and shivering. I couldn't stop my lip curling. And then the questions started. How? I asked myself. How could you have come to this? What had Voldemort done to reduce that proud Gryffindor I knew to the creature in my kitchen? He looked vulnerable, like when I first saw him at the beginning of the First Year. Before the mask was donned and the façade raised. Where's your shield, Potter? Where's the brave, mighty Harry Potter?

…Gone. And all that was left was this. A poor trade indeed.

None of the house elves were near him. They left him alone, working at the other end of the kitchen. Doubtless he didn't want me to see him. Too bad. I wanted to ask some questions. Like why he was still alive. I crept forward to him.

"Potter?" A long pause. Then-

"Go to hell, Malfoy."

Now that was rude. Here he was, in _my_ house, and still he insulted me. I walked closer to him, so that I was standing high above him. He was hunched, his arms wrapped around his knees. Trembling.

"What did they do to you?" No answer. Fine. Then I'd force one from him. "I heard your screams from upstairs," I snapped provocatively. "You were kicking up an unholy racket." I waited for the Gryffindor pride to lash out, waited for him to try and hex me. And waited. And waited. But he didn't move. Now that I looked at him I couldn't see his wand at all. No doubt they'd taken it away. Father (newly escaped from Azkaban and more pissed off than Professor Snape on a bad day) and the Dark Lord were upstairs in father's study. Maybe Potter's wand was up there too. Why'd they let him walk away? They must have known he was going nowhere. When were they coming after him again? When were they going to finish it?

I glanced at his left wrist. I had been right - it was bleeding, scarlet rivulets oozing onto the floor. A deep cut. A fresh cut. There was a knife on the floor next to him. Bloodstained too. Well he was still alive, so if he'd tried to kill himself by cutting his wrists then he must have bottled out of actual suicide. I snorted in disgust. Typical Potter reaction. Do the heroic thing – kill yourself before Voldemort gets you. But then, this is Harry Potter we are talking about, and his willpower is legend. One of the few, the very, very few to defy the Dark Lord's Imperious spell. If he had really meant to kill himself he would have succeeded. He'd cut himself for another reason. I reached down and lifted his wrist, careful not to get blood on my freshly manicured nails. He tried feebly to pull away.

I turned his hand over, palm upwards, and recoiled from what I saw. I knew now why he had been hacking at his own arm, and it made me feel sick. The Dark Mark. Burned black onto his skin, shining through the blood. Burned dark as it was on my own skin, a hideous tattoo. I remembered the unholy agony as I was branded, the horror and feeling of violation. The Dark Lord was the only one who knew how to place his mark. He must have put it there on Potter. Why? To humiliate his enemy? To cause Potter pain? (I remembered all too well the many, many sleepless nights I spent, tormented by the fire on my wrist). Or was it placed there to brand him as dead? The Dark Lord could hardly shoot his Mark into the sky above Malfoy manor after killing Potter here. People would notice. People we could do without noticing. There were still Aurors out there who could cause us inconveniences. Wizards would notice. So maybe he'd burnt the mark on the boy instead.

I let the arm fall back down to Potter's side and wondered what to do. The correct thing would be to leave him here for my dear Father to find. Maybe to watch as they killed him. A shiver ran through me. Despite my words, despite my act, I had never ever relished suffering quite like my family does. I failed to kill Dumbledore, and in those moments I realised that I did not wish to murder at all, that I despised the Dark Lord for his need to destroy. There had to be other ways. But he was the most powerful wizard around, and defying him would only result in my own death. So I crawled back to him, and apologised and grovelled. And he let me live. He let Mother and Father live too. He punished us all, yes, but he was surprisingly merciful. Needless to say, the Malfoys were no longer his favourite family. Not by a long shot. It made me wonder why he had brought Potter here at all. And now I wanted to stop him from killing the one person in the world who I would gladly see scream and writhe. Well, after his filthy blood traitor friend or maybe the know-it-all mudblood. God, they pissed me off, despising _me_; worms crawling at my foot and yet looking down on me. What the hell was I thinking? I was thinking of rescuing Harry Potter. Uurggh. The words sound wrong, don't they? And it would mean defying _him_. Yet that was what I wanted to do, more than anything else in the world, and, much as I will never admit it, I have a smidgeon of admiration for anyone with the guts to stand up to Voldemort. I couldn't just let him die.

I glanced around, checked that no one was watching, then took a towel from one of the house elves and wrapped his wrist in it. Then I pulled him upright.

"Stop it, Malfoy. Just leave me alone." His voice was hoarse from screaming.

"Shut up and move." I ignored his protests as I draped his dirty halfblood arm around my shoulder, resolving to have a shower later. Then I paused. Where to take him? If Father came looking for Potter and couldn't find him then he'd assume that someone had helped the boy. He'd probably check my room. I thought hard, and then started dragging him towards the wine cellar. It was dark down there, and I could hide him behind the racks of rich Claret and dark Beaujolais.

I dumped him on the dusty ground and hissed "Stay here and be quiet." He nodded drunkenly. Then I raced up to the kitchen, took the bloodstained knife to the sink and washed it personally, checked myself in the mirror, shuddered at the way my hair had become ruffled, nipped upstairs and dived onto my lifesaving pots of hair gel. It took five minutes to style my hair so that I looked like I had done nothing more strenuous than turn the pages of a book. A personal best. Let's see. We'll put on a clean white shirt for the innocent look and perhaps a dash of Calvin Klein for the true Malfoy feel. My toilet completed, I sneered at the mirror for practice, and then sauntered towards the conservatory. And stopped. No, I couldn't act like nothing had happened. The Dark Lord would want to know where Potter was. No way could I lie to him. I froze in indecision, cursing. If they found the boy hidden then they'd know I'd tried to help him. And he couldn't spend the rest of his life lying behind a wine rack. I had to get him away, far away from Malfoy Manor. But to do that I needed time. Then it hit me.

You know Hogwarts stairways occasionally move around? Yeah, well, big deal. Our stairways actually transfigure themselves. Into the oddest things too (imagine finding a rose garden where you expected an oak staircase to be). It's easy enough to fix, but it takes time. It would buy me time. Another little thing about Malfoy Manor staircases – they transfigure particularly if they feel dirty. It's a kind of self-cleaning mechanism. I raced down to the kitchens, elbowed an elf aside and, grimacing, picked up a handful of cold, slimy potato skins. Threw them onto the stairs. Repeated the move. Come on, come on! I picked up a third handful, but it was unnecessary. The staircase shuddered and then there was a _pop! _The archway which had been at the foot of the staircase was now covered by a portcullis. I kid you not. As in a medieval iron grid with pointy bits at the bottom. And behind that? A dark shaft. The stairs had transfigured into nothing. There was just an angled drop. Step this way, Voldemort…

But time was sliding away at a frightening rate. What the hell were Father and the Dark Lord doing? And how much longer did I have? Father would not be stopped for more than a few minutes by a transfigured staircase. He dealt with them everyday. I gathered all the house elves together and put on my most frightening voice.

"Right, I am giving you lot an _order_. You will _not_ disobey it, as I am your _master_." Several of them shifted nervously and one wrung her hands underneath her pillowcase.

"Yes, master Malfoy," they chorused.

"You will tell no one that you have seen Potter," I intoned, speaking slowly and clearly so that not one of the thick fools could possibly misunderstand me. "If anyone, no matter how powerful, asks where he is, you will say that you don't know. Understood?" One elf blew his nose and gave me a contrite look when I glared.

"Yes, master Malfoy," the numbskulls replied, eyes glazed.

"And you won't tell anyone I told you not to tell."

"Yes, master Malfoy."

"And you won't tell anyone I just told you not to tell them I told you not to-" I stopped myself. Their brains would probably explode trying to comprehend that, and father did keep complaining about how hard it was to find decent servants. In fact, as soon he was out of Azkaban the first thing he had done was vent his temper on any elf unfortunate enough to displease him in the tiniest way. Trinky was Crucioed for making the coffee too strong and Floxy was Imperiused into drowning himself in the washing up for breaking one of Father's port glasses.

Turning back towards the doorway I felt a tremor of horror as I saw Father's shadow stretching towards me. He was coming down the stairs. And not alone, either! I could hear a high, cold laugh, perhaps at something Father had said. Quickly I grabbed an apple from the fruit-bowl on a sideboard and bit into it, almost choking on my fear.

"He came this way, I'm sure." Father's voice boomed through the kitchen. A second later he strode through the door, followed by another man, whose very appearance rooted me to the spot.

Every time I see Lord Voldemort I feel I would be lucky to escape alive. No one could look like that, and not be utterly evil. I was frozen, gripping the apple so hard that my nails dug into it and the juice spread across my hand. This was the creature that had murdered so many wizards. The creature who had tried, yet failed to murder Potter as a baby. Who had returned just over two years ago, and tried to kill Potter, and failed again. I had once questioned whether one person could be capable of all Father said he had done. Now I was wiser, now I knew, just by looking at Voldemort, that he was.

He was tall, taller than any of us, yet skeletally thin; emaciated like he hadn't eaten for weeks. His skin was deathly white, as if he had never ever _seen_ sunlight, and his eyes were an insane red. I saw a unicorn once, with rabies. Father and some of his Deatheater friends were baiting it, and its eyes were just like the Dark Lord's own crimson, mad gaze. Those eyes glared suspiciously around the large kitchen and settled on me; the Dark Lord's gaze pinned me to the wall.

"Draco, we're looking for someone. Perhaps you've seen him?" Father asked. I tried to look innocent, wondering why I was covering up for someone I really hated. Because I didn't actually want to see him die, that's why.

"Who, Father?" I still held the forgotten apple loosely in my hand. Voldemort answered before my Father could.

"Harry Potter," he hissed. The way he said the name was fascinating. His voice betrayed his complete fixation with the boy.

"Potter?" I mumbled, and managed a characteristic sneer. No one intimidates a Malfoy! "I haven't seen him since school broke up." I allowed myself a look of disgust. "Please tell me he's not in the house!"

"He is," father snapped. "Are you sure you have seen nothing?"

"No," I answered, my voice becoming stronger. Lord Voldemort's gaze was still turning me inside out.

"Are you sure, Master Malfoy?" he murmured.

"Yes!"

"Then why," he said softly, red eyes narrowing, "do I smell a lie?"

"A lie?" I practically choked. I was about to protest but my father got there first.

"My Lord," he said smoothly, "I have brought up my son according to our standards, and have often seen proof of how much he hates Potter. Believe me, he is not lying. Potter is not here."

"Ah, but do I, Lucius? Do I believe you?" Voldemort asked softly.

"Have you ever had reason not to?" Father said, a shade sharply. It was clear that his pride was battling with his fear of and servitude to Voldemort. He was obviously extremely offended by his lord's questioning. Good. I was sick of seeing him crawl.

Voldemort held his gaze, and then dropped it lazily turning his attention back to me.

"Forgive me Lucius. After doubting you for thirteen years – I sometimes have to remind myself of your undying loyalty." The sneer in the words was very clear. Then he shrugged. "Yet, I have eyes, and you are right. The boy isn't here."

"As I said, Malfoys don't lie, my lord. And, should you still doubt my son's word, then feel free to question my house elves. Sparky!" Father clapped his hands imperiously and a small elf hurried over from behind a chopping board, wiping tomato juice from her hands on a cloth.

"That won't be necessary, Lucius," Voldemort said softly.

"No, no, I insist," father replied with a hard glare. "Just as proof my son is telling the truth. Sparky," he addressed the elf, "Have you seen a boy come into this kitchen?"

"Y-yes, Master s-sir," she stuttered, eyes wide with fear. My insides turned to ice. I'd forbidden them all to talk! Father raised an eyebrow and Voldemort's face lit up with interest.

"Who?" father demanded coldly. She darted a terrified glance at me, then raised a trembling finger and pointed in my direction.

"Y-young m-master, sir." I breathed again. Voldemort's face lost its triumphant look, to be replaced with the characteristic sneer.

"Sparky, have you seen anyone else?" father asked impatiently.

"N-no, M-m-master, sir," she whimpered, still staring fearfully at me. Then, to my horror, she burst into loud sobs, burying her face in her pillowcase.

"What's wrong with it?" Voldemort demanded. An expression of distaste slithered across his snake-like face. I stepped forward.

"She's unhappy for breaking her promise, sir. I made the house elves promise not to say they'd ever seen me in the kitchen. I sneak in occasionally for food. Sparky broke her promise," I said harshly. She gave a loud wail and rocked backwards and forwards.

"I see," Voldemort's face was a mask of disappointment and disgust for the elf hiccuping at his feet. "Well, Lucius, shall we look elsewhere?" As he spoke I felt a gentle probing at my mind. _NO!_ Aunt Bellatrix's lessons flooded back to me. _Brick wall. My mind is a brick wall. You can't get through; no bricks are loose. _Lazily the Dark Lord withdrew from my mind. I wasn't fooled; it was not because I had blocked him but because he couldn't be bothered to spend time breaking into my thoughts. He thought I wasn't worth it. Fine, that worked for me.

"Certainly, my lord," father said, giving me a look which said that this was most definitely not over. He'd probably ask mother about my behaviour. Still, I didn't have much to worry about there. She was generally too stoned to remember that she had a son, let alone what I was eating. My father – the power mad accolyte of an insane halfblood dark lord. My mother – married to a man she no longer loved, traumatised by my failure to kill Dumbledore and the very real possibility of me dieing at Lord Voldemort's hand for it. She'd withdrawn over the past few months and eventually found solace in strange potions and white powders. And me, Draco, caught in the middle. The Malfoy proud of his family, but not proud of his family, if that makes sense. We had a mighty heritage, a mighty name. But the current Malfoys? Well, we could only improve from here.


	2. Doubts

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Rating: M

Summary: It's the Summer after Sixth Year. Draco Malfoy's just quietly living in his manor trying to pretend the outside world no longer exists when an unexpected visitor drops in. The thing is, this visitor didn't plan on being there either. But he needs help or all hope for the future will be lost.

Warnings: Strong violence, language, death – all the stuff that happens around Lord Voldemort…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, they belong to J. K. Rowling. The Harry Potter films belong to Warner Bros. I am not making any money off of this and I write with the sole intention to entertain. However, any characters that appear which are not in the books or films are mine, and should not be plagiarised.

A/N: Hmm, not very many reviews for the first chapter (one, people! Surely we can do better than that?) Anyways, here's chapter two. It's a touch short, I know, but chapter three will more than make up for it. Anything else? Oh yes. Review damn it!

Doubts

Have you ever felt true fear? I mean mind-boggling, shit-I'm-going-to-die terror? Yeah? You think so? You're wrong. Because no one in the world has ever experienced the nightmare that I went through that August afternoon. Lord Voldemort searching my house and getting angrier and angrier. At any moment he could read my mind and see the answer. My only hope lay in keeping out of his way. The Dumbledore affair had led him to believe that I was weak and useless. Perhaps that was why he hadn't bothered to break through my mental defences. I had to keep them up. One slip up and I truly was dead.

And then what? Would my father help his lord? Would he stand there whilst I was tortured horribly? Whilst I died? Or would he fight it and lose his own life too? God, what a decision! And I didn't know the answer. How awful is that? I didn't know whether my own father would protect me. I had to prevent the choice from happening. I had to fix this horrible mess. Already I was regretting my impulsive action. But it was not undoable. I could just imagine the scenario. _'Actually, my Lord, I know where Potter is. You see, I thought I'd hide him in the cellar, but now I've changed my mind…'_ Cue me screaming in agony. No thank you. Malfoys aren't good at screaming. I'd have to do what we do best; play it cool.

As soon as I could I left the kitchen (the Dark Lord was occupied by venting his temper on a pair of house elves and their wails followed me up the stairs) and went to my room. My mind was burning. _Potter is in the wine cellar._ I felt as if the words were branded on my brain. _Brick wall, brick wall. You can't get into my head. _I'd already be dead if it weren't for Aunt Bellatrix's training. People say you can't lie to Voldemort. It appeared that actually you could, but how long the lie would hold was another question. The Dark Lord would not leave until he found Potter. No, correct that. The Dark Lord would not leave until he killed Potter. No, correct _that_. The Dark Lord would not leave until Harry Potter died. So all I had to do was kill Potter and all would be well.

I sat on the end of my bed and put my head in my hands. There was no way out. No solution where we both kept our lives. I could either give him to Voldemort, and watch him die or I could take him away and give him to his friends, and then live the rest of my life in fear as Voldemort hunted me down and communicated his displeasure to me. Most people who displease Lord Voldemort meet horrible deaths.

Anger surged through me. Dammit, I was Draco Malfoy! The genius who worked out how to get Deatheaters into the seemingly impregnable fortress that was Hogwarts. Somewhere there was a solution and if anyone could find it, it was me. What could I use? What did I have to hand? My eyes roved around my room. None of my schoolbooks, and none of my robes of course; they were all still in Hogwarts. I hadn't had time to claim them the night we fled. What did I have? I had my wand, but a one-to-one duel with Lord Voldemort would only result in a painful, fatal defeat. Beside my bed I had laid a book on Eastern Snake charmers. On the bedside table a half empty glass of cold sleeping potion (I have had the most terrible nightmares ever since that night when dreams and reality merged and the choice became impossible). Not much use really – there wasn't enough there to put a house elf to sleep, let alone a rampaging Dark Lord. But wait! Potter had seemed less than alert; his eyes glassy, his expression vacant. He'd barely fought me as I took him down to the cellar. He'd be even easier to move around asleep (no unnecessary flapping/ struggling/ noise), and I dared not stun him for fear that he wouldn't wake up again. I picked up the glass and calculated. A small amount of sleeping potion to usher him gently into sleep. No sudden shocks to the system, no risk of brain damage such as a stunning spell might inflict on someone mentally fragile. It would work.

I opened a drawer in my desk, took out a small vial and poured the dregs of the potion into it. The clumpy liquid slid down the sides of the glass very slowly. My impatience mounted. Every second wasted was a second closer to the Dark Lord discovering the truth!

I stowed the vial in my pocket and considered further. So I could put him to sleep. That wouldn't stop the Dark Lord searching for him. It wouldn't get him out of danger either. I walked over to my desk and scanned it. Spare quills and parchment. But above my desk; of course! Two shelves, each lined with rows of bottles. There had to be something here that could help.

These shelves were my beauty shelves. I mean THE beauty shelves. The shelves every Malfoy must have, the shelves every Malfoy visits at least five times a day. Prominently arranged on the top one were five pots of hair gel (for the I-don't-give-a-damn look, the bow-when-you-speak-to-me-you-worm look, the just-another-day-in-the-life-of-the-perfect-Mr-Malfoy look, the arrogant-bastard look and the PARTY look. The last one was only used when I was already rather drunk.) Automatically I opened the first one (the I-don't-give-a-damn one) and smoothed it through my hair. The familiar ritual relaxed me, whilst my eyes wondered over the rest of the shelf. My Calvin Klein, of course. All three bottles of it (many people over apply. They should be Crucioed within an inch of their lives. A little and often. Say it with me. A little and often). Hmm. Not very useful, although Potter could certainly do with something better than what he was wearing (eau de blood is so _vampire_) but then, I could spend hours improving him and I didn't have the time.

As I sorted through shaving gel (yes, I shave!), face moisturiser, hand moisturiser, leg moisturiser and an anti-spot potion from Russia containing illegal ingredients (it was the strongest one on the black market and Malfoys do NOT get zits) I considered the many faults of Harry Potter. I was trying to save someone who thought that baggy jumpers were ok to wear, for Heavens sake! And don't get me started on the geeky glasses. Was it too much to ask that he find contact lenses, instead of hiding behind those silly, pity-me-I'm-a-nerd specs? Honestly.

My hand froze mid-gel-application as I stared at the bottle I'd absentmindedly picked up. Polyjuice potion. Better still, Polyjuice potion without direction! That means Polyjuice potion still needing the key ingredient – a part of the person one was to change into. Of course! I made a whole batch of it at home over the Christmas holidays when I was using it on Crabbe and Goyle, as it was safer than continuing to make it at school. And this one must have been left behind. What a coincidence! What a wonderful, wonderful coincidence! Someone, somewhere had decided that this would not be the day I die. Already a plan was fermenting in my mind, already I could see the way forward. It was risky. Scrap that. It was downright dangerous. And it would involve trickery, deception, cunning and bloody murder. Who says I wasn't following in my dear Father's footsteps?

"Draco?" I spun around, guilt written on my face. I was done for! NO! Slowly I forced my hammering heart to slow. It was just my mother. I'm sorry if that sounds callous, but that's how I felt. Thank god, it's just her. She stood there with a slightly dreamy look on her face, in her white nightdress. My heart skipped a beat. HER hand was bleeding. Oh God! Was this a terrible nightmare?

"Mother! What happened?" She looked down at her hand as if seeing it for the first time.

"Draco? The mirror. It wouldn't stop." I hastily moved between her and my own mirror, also slipping the Polyjuice potion into my pocket and wiping my gel-covered hand on a towel.

"It wouldn't stop what?" I tried to keep my voice calm. I'd never seen her look so far away before. Her face crumpled.

"It wouldn't stop showing me."

"Showing you what?" Tears slid down her face.

"The truth."

I walked to her side and took her hand gently. Beneath the blood were superficial cuts; nothing like that mangled wrist I'd seen only half an hour before. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Mother, I think we should go to your room." I would rather have died then have the Dark Lord see her this way. This pain was private. Worse: it had been inflicted by him. I could not have him see what he had done to us. And I did not know what my father would do if we did run into them. I spent a few seconds laying a shirt, a pair of clean underpants and a pair of jeans out on my bed, ready for when I would need them later, and then led her back to her rooms, always keeping a wary eye out for trouble. I heard the sound of bookshelves being overturned as we passed the library and hastened my pace, dragging my mother behind me. When Lord Voldemort loses his temper he doesn't do it in half measures.

We made it to her room without incident. I caught my breath as we entered. The mirror was cracked in the middle. In my imagination I could see her weakly slamming her fists into it again and again. I lifted my wand and licked dry lips.

"_Reparo_." The shards sealed themselves back into place. "_Evanesco_." The bloody streaks on the glass were wiped away. "Come on, Mother." I led her into the room and sat her on the bed. She gazed fearfully at the mirror. "There's nothing, there, Mother." She shook her head. "Can you see anything?" Again she shook her head. I clapped my hands loudly and a house elf appeared with a crack, bowing low. "Grunge, I need you to bring me a bowel of warm water from the kitchen, and a roll of bandage." Mother rubbed her hand and a flicker of pain passed her face. "And a dish of essence of Murtlap." The elf bowed low.

"Yes master."

"Do not speak to anyone. And bring Sparky with you." The elf vanished with a bang and I knelt before my mother and stroked her forearms.

"Mother, can you see me?" She nodded. "Do you know who I am?" She smiled, a beautiful peaceful smile.

"Of course. You're my little Draco. My son. My only son." I reached up and hugged her carefully, avoiding the bloody hands which would stain my white shirt.

"Yes, that's right Mother. I'm here. Everything's all right." Another loud crack and Grunge and Sparky reappeared, bearing the two full bowels and the bandages. I let go of my mother.

"Listen to me, Mother. I'm going to have to leave you now."

"No!" She reached out for me, her hands clutching. I fell back to avoid them.

"Mother, I have to go. I have to do something." Tears filled her eyes again.

"Draco. I won't lose you. No, I won't! Please, Draco." I shivered at her words. Her great fear of the past year – that she would lose me –communicated itself to her when she was like this so strongly that every parting was agony.

"I have to," I whispered. I stood up, bent down and kissed her forehead. Then I turned away from her to the elves. "Wash and bind her hands. Give her a mild sleeping potion. Sparky, you are to pass on all your other duties. From now on I charge you to watch my mother every minute of the day. If she attempts to hurt herself you are to stop her and report it to me. If she succeeds in hurting herself I will punish you severely." She nodded glumly.

"Sparky will do as master commands."

"Good." I jumped at the touch as my mother found my hand and held it.

"Don't leave me Draco."

"Mother, I'll be back very soon." She leaned forward in a secretive way.

"You see, I've already lost my husband. I don't want to lose you too." I bent down towards her again.

"You haven't lost him, Mother. He's come back."

"I've lost him," she repeated. I unhooked her fingers from my wrist and walked to the door. On the way out I washed her blood off of me in the basin Grunge held. Before the end of this day there would be far more blood on my hands, blood which would not come off so easily.


	3. Actions

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, they belong to J. K. Rowling.

A/N: Well, thank you for the reviews Kaluki and Shaitanah. Cough, cough. The rest of you hang your heads in shame! Anyways, here is chapter three. Bear in mind, Draco is not evil, he is desperate, and desperate people don't always do the nicest thing. Personally I am a Draco sympathiser and think he will probably turn out to be a good guy in the end of Rowling's books. Please review!

Actions

I left my mother with the house elves. Perhaps I should have stayed with her. She was Malfoy, I was Malfoy and we are supposed to value our own family over all others. _All_ others, Father. That includes psychopaths with their melodramatic tattoos and their grand visions. A psychopath. A year ago I was bursting with pride because that same creature gave me his mark. What a fool I was! So thrilled that the mighty Lord Voldemort needed me. I could see my future laid out in beautiful clear lines. I would rise through his ranks; I would become his right hand man. My power would grow and grow until none dared challenge me, until people breathed my name with fear. How eager I was to learn Occlumency; and now I am forced to turn it against that same creature I was learning it for.

I suppose in my childish visions of power and glory I skipped the suffering and the fear. I certainly skipped the death. There is a huge difference between being entrusted with the task of killing Dumbledore, and pointing a wand at a living breathing person who is talking to you in a reasonable tone. I couldn't do it. I couldn't.

In those vital seconds my emotions concerning the Dark Lord changed unrecognisably. Gone was the respect, the wonder. Gone was any shadow of loyalty I may have retained from the beginning of the year. All I felt was fear and loathing for this tyrant who had trapped, threatened and terrorised me. He knew that I hated him. He had to; he had confronted me as soon as I had Apparated away from Hogwarts, whilst my mental defences were weakened through confusion and panic. He had let me live that time, discarding me as worthless. If he caught me defying him now I would not survive.

And so it was with my heart hammering and my feet clumsy that I snuck back down to the kitchens. I checked carefully around each corner before turning it, ready to run and hide if I saw him. Pathetic, isn't it? A Malfoy, skulking and scared in his own house. How you have betrayed us, Father. What a plague you have brought on our heads.

I made it to the kitchen without incident, fear running through my veins and adrenaline pounding in my ears. My breath came quickly and as I passed the mirror I barely recognised myself. Gone was cool, calm, suave Draco Malfoy. Instead there was a furtive, wide-eyed creature sneaking around in his place. The house elves made no sign that they noticed my second appearance that day, even though I hardly ever came down to the kitchens. As I slid through them, sizing each up, they averted their eyes and scrambled clumsily out of my way. I passed them warily, to the entrance to the cellar, and walked silently down the stairs.

He wasn't where I'd left him. Un-bloody-believable. The idiot had made his own attempt at escaping. I wanted to curse and slam around some of the wine racks, but couldn't risk the noise. Where the hell had the fool gone? He could be anywhere in the wine cellars, and they stretched for at least half a mile further. Malfoys do nothing in halves, and that includes drinking. We had one of the largest wine stores in England.

Potter must have wrapped the tea towel I had left him around his wrist, as there was hardly any blood on the floor. I squatted down and examined the ground. A cold smile spread over my face. Not very clever, Potter. The drag marks in the dust led deeper into the cellar. As I followed them, fiery torches spurted into life on the walls around me. I could not see any light in the darkness ahead, which meant he had either left the cellar or, more likely, stopped moving. The torches needed movement to trigger them, you see. I walked deeper into the darkness, past racks of Port my grandfather had laid down, and bottles of something my _great _grandfather had stowed there, the labels too dusty to read. I kept my eyes on the ground, intent on the scuff marks in the dirt. They looked like he had first crawled, and then half walked; half dragged himself along using the racks for support. And then, amazingly, the tracks moved away from the racks into opener areas. He was walking upright! His feet weren't lifting properly; there weren't clear foot impressions, but he was walking unaided. After four hours of torture. I pulled my wand out of my waistband. Potter might be more dangerous than I thought.

It was just as well that I was wary, as it saved my skull. The bottle came out of nowhere, hurtling straight at my head with shocking speed. I ducked hastily, and it smashed into the wall behind me. The thick glass cracked as it fell to the floor, bleeding deep crimson wine. Potter stepped out from behind the rack that had concealed him, holding a second bottle in his uninjured hand. He swayed as I watched him. I laughed harshly.

"Very brave, Potter. You were planning to hide down here for the rest of your life, defending yourself with bottles, were you?" His scowl was interrupted by flickers of pain and fear.

"Shut up, Malfoy." His voice was still rough from screaming. I was too highly strung to feel any pity for him, or any compassion, so I suppose I was harsher than I should have been.

"_Expelliarmus_!" The bottle flew out of his grip, and he wobbled again, alarmingly close to falling over. "Listen, you bloody idiot. You don't have a cat's chance in hell of getting out of here alive. If I wanted to I could call for the Dark Lord and watch him finish you off here and now. It wouldn't take long either, from the look of you."

"Then why don't you?" he spat, desperately grabbing one of the racks for support. "I'd bet you'd enjoy that, Draco."

"I wouldn't," I replied coldly.

"You didn't have any such delicate qualms when you broke my nose last year," he snarled.

"Still bitter are we?" I laughed. "Well, you can hardly complain. You paid me back with that very nasty spell in the girls' toilets. What were you trying to do? Disembowel me?"

"That was an accident," he panted, a spasm of pain crossing his face. This is what you get when you try to amputate your hand. Sigh.

"Sure," I said. "You just accidentally said a spell." I cocked my head, considering. "Snape's right though; it was a powerful spell. I must admit, I was a tad impressed. I think Snape was too. Not that you're at all impressive now." I walked over to him. He waved a hand, trying to claw me away. I batted it aside, placed my palm on his chest and gave him a hard shove. He fell backwards onto the floor. I leant down over him. "Look Potter, even you aren't thick enough not to see that I am your only chance to get out of here."

"And you want to save me, do you?" he answered. "If this is another of Voldemort's little tricks it's a damn weak one."

I sighed. Honestly, some people don't want to be helped.

"If you could stop thinking the world revolves around you for five seconds, and just consider the amount of danger I am putting myself in by even talking to you, I would greatly appreciate it." He said nothing. I groaned. "All right, look I'll say it. Voldemort is evil. Voldemort is wrong. I want to see him stopped. And I think you're the only person who can do that. So I'll help you." He laughed bitterly.

"I doubt I could stop a woodlouse at the moment."

"Well, I won't fight you there." No reply. I reached down and gripped his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Look, I don't have time for pep talks. I want him stopped. I want him dead. I want my father back. I think you might be able to help me."

"Your father is vile and cruel and I hate him," he retorted. "I'm not going to be helping you save him."

"But you'll free him," I whispered. "You'll free us all." He rolled his head on his neck.

"Why this sudden faith in me, Malfoy?" Hmm. Who had decreed that I had to be truthful?

I said: "Because there is no one else."

"Indeed." He actually smiled, a genuine mad, Harry-Potter-on-the-quidditch-pitch smile, and I knew he would do exactly as I said. "So, Malfoy. How exactly were you planning to rescue me?"

I reached into my right pocket and pulled out the vial I had placed there.

"This is Polyjuice potion. It has one of my mother's hairs in it; I took it only a few minutes ago. You walk with me to the other end of the cellar, drink this, we get you some clothes and walk out." He snorted.

"Voldemort's out there." The way he said the name reminded me of how Voldemort had sounded saying his. It was the way they kind of lingered over the vowels, as if just saying the name connected them to each other.

"Voldemort was looking for you in the attics last time I checked. We can sneak out of the back door, get you away from the house and then you can Apparate home."

"Away from the house?"

"Malfoy Manor is shielded heavily, and surrounded by Anti-Apparation Jinxes," I explained. "Similar to Hogwarts. Not even the Dark Lord can drop in unexpected – he has to use the door like everyone else."

"I don't think I can Apparate in this condition," he said grudgingly.

"The gift of Harry Potter," I replied. "Yet again you have someone on hand ready to help you." Yet again someone was risking their life for him, damn it. What was it about this boy which made people choose death over seeing him hurt? "Come on," I sneered. "I want you out of my house and as far away as possible as _soon _as possible. You're tainting the air."

Perhaps my very Malfoy words were enough to convince him that I was genuine. When I offered him my left hand he glared at it suspiciously, doubting, but then took it.

"This doesn't change anything, Malfoy," he hissed, and quick as a flash his other hand whipped up and drew my sleeve back. I gasped in surprise and then we were both frozen, staring at Lord Voldemort's mark, burned blackly between us.

"Your choice," Potter eventually said. "Your master. Defy him now if you wish but it doesn't make this arm white again."

"I'm not looking for redemption," I replied coldly. "And anyway, your own arm isn't that clean." The bitter anger on his face was priceless. "You know my motives. I offer you the way out. Take it now or leave it. Malfoys do not offer their help twice." He sighed.

"I'll take it."

"Good boy. Now let's go."

We walked slowly back to the entrance of the cellar, him hanging off me. I was glad when I was able to dump him down as we reached the foot of the stairs; quidditch practice had given him muscles and he was not light. I held out the vial of potion to him.

"I know you've done Polyjuice before. Drink it and the effects are almost instantaneous." He took it and clumsily unplugged the stopper.

"I'm going to turn into a woman?" He gave a nervous little laugh. "That's a new one." I grabbed his hand and held his uninjured wrist in a tight grip. The other one was still wrapped in its towel-bandage.

"I am warning you now. Misuse my mother's body and I will not only turn you over to Voldemort, but I'll also capture the whole thing on camera and send the pictures to your blood-traitor friends." The hatred that burned in his eyes was gratifying; I was almost afraid that I'd become too intimate before, too close. With just one sentence I had effectively raised the barriers between us again. Good. They were comforting, those barriers. They kept us at a safe distance. I didn't want to get close to a boy who had once tried to rip me apart. Deep down he frightened me, deep down he sickened me. So self-righteous, and yet when push came to shove he'd terrified me beyond belief. He's come damn near to killing me. I released him and he lifted the vial and drank the potion inside in one swallow. He closed his eyes, but opened them again a moment later.

"It isn't working. Why isn't it working?" His words were already slurring, his eyelids dropping. I gently took the vial from his hand.

"It's working just fine." His eyes fluttered. He tried to stand up, to sit up straighter even, but failed.

"You tricked me, Malfoy." I leaned over him and shut his eyes with the palm of my hand.

"It's for your own good." He did not answer.

I ran my hand across his forehead and then through his absurdly thick hair, dropping the few strands that came away into the vial of Polyjuice potion, before replacing it in my pocket. Then I checked his breathing; feeling the regular rise and fall of his chest, and pulled out my wand.

"_Reducio_." He shrunk down until he was perhaps half his previous size. "_Reducio_." Now he was getting seriously tiny. Smaller and smaller he shrank, until I could pick him up in the palm of my hand. I handled him gently, watching in fascination as his tiny chest rose with the breaths. How vulnerable he was. With hardly any effort I could have pulled him apart. I carefully wrapped his body in my handkerchief, leaving his head free. I didn't want him suffocating accidentally. Then I slid him into my trouser pocket, making sure he was not squashed. It was surreal; I, Draco Malfoy, had the People's Saviour, the mighty Chosen One snuggled up in my pocket. If I brushed past a wall too carelessly we could all kiss the dream of a brighter future goodbye.

I walked back up into the kitchen. Phase One of my plan was implemented, but Phase One was the easy part. Trick a scared teenager into drinking a sleeping potion. Phase Two was the part which could prove problematic. Don't even get me started on Phase Three.

Standing in the centre of the Malfoy kitchen is not a thing one does lightly. A roasting joint spat fat from where it was spitted and turning above the great fire. House elves scampered in all directions underfoot, some running with sharp knives clenched in their hands, others wielding ladles, and still others carrying bowels of ingredients. I needed one of those knives. Carefully I picked up one which had just been used to score pork rind, wrapped it in a towel and slid it down the front of my trousers. Hey, when you wear tight clothes there aren't that many places you can hide a knife. I had to make do with what I had. The elves kept their eyes averted from me, too frightened to meet my gaze. They wouldn't dare object to me borrowing this knife.

The smells were fabulous; Malfoy food rivals that at Hogwarts. I don't know where half of it goes actually, as the three of us could never have eaten all that I could see being prepared. No doubt Father had uses for it. The sounds were less delectable. Elves shouting to each other in their harsh guttural voices, garbling the words hideously with their animal tongues. The gurgle of dirty water finding freedom down the plug hole. The squelch of raw meat being slapped onto a counter. Honestly, it's enough to put you off your dinner, seeing it being made.

I scanned the kitchen. I was looking for an elf that wouldn't be missed; an unimportant expendable creature. My eyes lit on a miserable wretch wiping his nose on his pillowcase as he carried a bucket of potato peelings towards the bins.

"You!" He jumped, and a pall of silence fell over the elves. "Your name?" He swallowed.

"Bilpy, Master."

"Leave that and come with me. The rest of you are to take over Bilpy's chores; I have another job for him." Bilpy looked utterly miserable; he handed his bucket to another elf. They watched him walk to my side like a condemned man. Anyone would think I had announced that I intended to have him for dinner. I glanced down at him coldly. "Bilpy, you are to follow me in silence." He bowed.

"Master commands, Bilpy obeys." I said nothing more, but strode out of the kitchen. I could hear him scurrying behind me to keep up. Elves really are the most pathetic creatures. A race of snivelling servants. It's enough to make you hurl.

The fear had returned now. It was tempered with determination, with the knowledge that I was doing something, but still I could feel my pulse quicken as I stepped back into the main body of the house. My panic communicated itself to my legs, and I found myself taking the stairs two at a time. Up the first staircase. Turn. Down the passage past the library. Up the second staircase. Turn. Up the third. And then along a maze of corridors to a little known ladder leading up to the great attics. Bilpy scampered behind me, sniffing every now and then. It was the sniff that got me. Such an annoying sound. It wiped away any traces of pity I might have felt for him. We were in the attic now. I crossed it to the great, dirty windows which faced south. Sunlight streamed in through the grime.

The attic contained, amongst other things, old furniture. I sat down on a chair missing one arm and motioned Bilpy towards me. He stood in front of me, his overlarge eyes moist with misery, his hands wringing beneath the pillowcase. I hold out the vial of Polyjuice potion to him.

"Drink it." He cringed away from it.

"Master," he pleaded.

"Drink it," I commanded.

"Master please."

"Drink it now." He could not disobey me any longer. He reached for the vial with trembling fingers. I uncorked it and placed it in his hands. With a face of dread he drank the potion.

The changes were fast, and even weirder than usual. I mean, forget age change, forget gender change, this was _species_ change. For a terrible second I thought it wouldn't work, that I'd end up with some terrible mutant on my hand. He squeaked shrilly as his flesh stretched and changed, as he grew, as his face morphed. Then it was over. In front of me stood a carbon copy of Harry Potter. Harry Potter wearing too small a pillow case.

"Urgh. I so don't need to see that." I drew my wand again. "_Accio_ clothes." Up from my room flew the grey t-shirt, the boxers and the jeans which I had selected earlier. They were close matches to what Potter had been wearing, although of an infinitely better cut, of course. However, the clothes would not matter too much. It was the face that counted. I threw the clothes to Bilpy who stood there blinking stupidly.

"Dress yourself." A look of wonder crossed his face.

"Master has given Bilpy clothes." What? WHAT? Oh shit, I'd totally forgotten. I forced a smile across my face.

"Yes Bilpy, I'm setting you free." He picked up the shirt reverently. "Now why don't you put on your nice new clothes like a good elf?" The idiot nodded blearily and pulled on the clothes. It was torturously slow. Then he looked down at himself.

"Why has master changed my body?" I smiled and leant forward.

"You're going to be remembered in history, Bilpy, as the elf that saved the life of the mighty Harry Potter." A light entered his eyes.

"Harry Potter is here?" I stroked my pocket unconsciously.

"Nearby. Now Bilpy, are you ready to help him?" Bilpy nodded eagerly. I raised my wand again. "Good elf. _Stupefy_."

He fell backwards and collapsed onto a Victorian writing desk. I was running out of time and had to move quickly. When the body was found Lord Voldemort would look for two marks: the infamous scar and the newly impressed Dark Mark. I brushed Bilpy's fringe back and smiled to see the slash of lightning imprinted there. Excellent. However, I could not replicate the Dark Mark. And a bare left wrist would be a dead giveaway. Even the slashed mess that was Potter's arm had still borne the Mark clearly. I had to obliterate the actual wrist.

You see, if the Mark wasn't there then there had to be an explanation for its absence. I pulled the knife out of my trousers and gritted my teeth. I'm not a sadist like Father. I'm not good at hands on violence. I'm not good at blood. Do it quickly, Draco, before you lose your nerve. I gripped Bilpy's left wrist and in one movement hacked down on it with the knife. It didn't completely sever. In fact, it twitched reflexively, and he groaned in his comatose state. Oh God, I should have brought a cleaver. Blood was spattering as the arm moved, blood was trickling off the knife. I was ready to vomit now, but I controlled the urge. Another two hacks and the hand fell off. Bilpy wriggled and moaned unconsciously. His reflex movements had made it harder, but I needed him alive whilst this happened. I needed his heart to beat, so that it could push the blood out of the stump. If he were already dead the minimal blood on the end would have been noticeable to anyone familiar with wounds. I was sure Lord Voldemort had seen a fair few.

As soon as the hand fell off I burned the horrid thing with a fire spell. The fingers curled in the heat and the smell was horrendous in that it smelled just like any other meat cooking. My eyes told me to vomit, whilst my nose told me to get hungry. The conflicting feelings almost destroyed my willpower, and it was only with a supreme effort that I did not throw up. That would be disastrous; more mess to clean up, more difficulties, more chance of getting caught.

The next part was staging the death. It had to look real and it had to look believable. The Dark Lord would not be satisfied just finding a body lying around; he'd want to know how Potter had died, why he had died. It had to look like suicide, had to look like Potter had worked alone without any help from me. I picked up a light wooden stool and hefted it in my hands. Yes, it was possible that a boy with only one working hand could lift it, could throw it with some force. I set the stool down and picked up my wand again. Now was the hard part. My first ever kill. Alone and scared in my own attic. Who said the life of a Deatheater wasn't glamorous?

He looked too human. Oh God, he looked just like Potter. Bleeding stump and all. The bile rose high in my throat. But I had to be sure. I had to be sure that he did not accidentally survive the fall. That he ended up dead.

"_Avada Kadavra_." Was that my voice? Was that _my_ voice? That dreadful hissing, those words of death? I felt my wand shudder as bright green light shot from it. My aim was true; the spell hit Bilpy square on. His chest fell and never rose again. I'd done it. I'd done it! Hooray. I felt even sicker than before. But I had to move fast now. Time would start ticking from the second I made a noise. And I intended to make a very loud noise indeed. I placed the knife on the floor near the burned stump, dropping it untidily so that it looked like it had been thrown to the ground, then picked up the stool again and gingerly lifted the severed stump. I used it to smear some blood onto the stool, just for authenticity. Then I flung the stool hard at the windows.

I swear the noise they made as they shattered was deafening. It must have been heard at least a mile away. Any second now the Dark Lord would come running. Thank God you couldn't Apparate in Malfoy Manor. I pointed my wand at Bilpy's lifeless body.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_." It lifted up and with a flick of my wand I sent it through the gap in the glass. I didn't see it fall, but I heard the impact. I'll hear that sound many times again in my nightmares. And then I frantically took a threadbare blanket lying across an ancient bookshelf and used it to wipe away the multiple footprints in the dust on the floor. And I ran. Oh God, I ran. Back to my room. Back to where I'd be safe. I tumbled in, and resisted the urge to slam the door. Too much of a giveaway. Instead I felt everything that I had done catch up with me. I ran to the basin and vomited heavily. Washed my mouth out with water. Hurled again. My limbs were heavy with exhaustion, but I couldn't sleep, couldn't sleep. There was still too much to do.

_You like? Please review!_


	4. Completion

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Rating: M

Summary: It's the Summer after Sixth Year. Draco Malfoy's just quietly living in his manor trying to pretend the outside world no longer exists when an unexpected visitor drops in. Can Draco maintain the act he has started, or will all be lost?

Warnings: Strong violence, language, death – all the stuff that happens around Lord Voldemort…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, they belong to J. K. Rowling. Sigh.

A/N – Wow, look at all those reviews. Thank you, thank you! You have given my life meaning again. What else? Oh yeah. Brownie points to the first person who can tell me who the Goddess Hecate is. And the description of Misty is actually an accurate description of one of my own mad, mad cats. Sorry, couldn't resist. When you've read it, you know the drill. Click the little review button and make the sun shine brighter for me. Thank you.

Completion

It wasn't long before the fireworks started. By fireworks I mean my father yelling "What was that?" several times. Then a thundering on the stairs as they both galloped up to the attic. I really should have peeked out of my door – the sight of Lord Voldemort pelting up the stairs with his robes hiked up would have been priceless, but I couldn't draw attention to myself. There was a long pause, presumably whilst my little attic tableau was contemplated. My room had South facing windows to catch the maximum amount of sunlight, with wide, waist-high sills which could be sat upon. It occurred to me that I could watch what was happening if I moved over there and stuck my head out. However, what I really needed was an excuse to have my head there. It would look just a little suspicious if I randomly leant out of my window. The opportunity came when I heard an almighty crash coming from the garden. I walked over to the sill and hesitantly poked my head out.

The crash had been the Dark Lord exploding what was once a rather ugly statue of the goddess Hecate, but which was now a thousand marble shards scattered across the large patio. Why did he do it? Who knows. Maybe that's the Dark Lord equivalent of a victory dance. 'Harry Potter' sprawled face down, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his amputated stump mercifully concealed below his body. As I watched Father reached out gingerly with a foot and kicked him over onto his side. A further shove from his Armani shoe, and the body rolled onto its back. I froze in horror as the smashed face stared up at the skies. SHIT! I forgot about glasses! There were no glasses on the dead 'Harry Potter'. _Let them not notice_, I prayed. _Let them dismiss it; let them think it's unimportant_. I thought I'd been so clever but instead I'd made a stupid mistake like that. What other things had I missed? My empty stomach rolled as I ran uneasily over everything I'd done. I'd cut his hand off to conceal the bare wrist. I'd left the knife and the stool in the attic, both with blood on them. I'd wiped away the footprints. I'd sworn the elves to silence. Wait, had I? I thought I had. That was something I'd need to check. Better still to wipe their memories as soon as I had a chance. But they say the Dark Lord could break memory spells. I felt sicker by the minute. Too many loose ends. The elves. The severed hand! I'd burned it and left the charred remains in the attic as evidence. _But Potter didn't have his wand! _Idiot, Draco. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Another foolish, foolish mistake. I had to get away fast. Get rid of Potter. Get away from Voldemort and his thought tendrils which gently explored my mental defences.

As I watched Lord Voldemort bent down and brushed the blood clotted fringe away from Bilpy's forehead with his long fingers. Whether or not he could make out the scar beneath the blood was unimportant; it _was_ there and Polyjuice doesn't wear off once you're dead. If you died looking like Harry Potter then your corpse would always look like Harry Potter. An improvement in Bilpy's case.

The Dark Lord hadn't finished his examination of the body. He bent down and lifted the arm which was missing the hand. He turned it in the light… looking for traces of his Mark? Had I hacked at it high enough? Was he thinking that _just here_ there should be the top of the skull of his Mark? Subconsciously I rubbed the Mark on my own wrist. It stood out blackly against my skin, like something cancerous. I watched as the Dark Lord ran his fingers over the blood spattered skin near the stump, heedless of the smears accumulating on their tips. Lord Voldemort is more than used to blood on his hands. He stood up straight again, dropping the arm contemptuously, and glanced up at the windows, squinting as the sunlight fell in his red eyes. Were they weakened? I wondered. Were they like an albino's eyes, sensitive to bright light? Or was I only imagining it, grasping desperately at any sign of a crack in his formidable armour?

His eyes moved from the shattered attic windows across the side of the house. They saw me. _He_ saw me. I was pinned in that gaze once again, a rabbit caught by muggle headlight (hey, I read about them somewhere). Instantly I slammed up my mental defences with everything I had. Was it enough, was it enough? Damn it, say something Draco!

"Father!" I called. "What on earth is that mess on our patio? It looks highly unhygienic." Play dumb, play dumb. You couldn't possibly recognise him at this distance; he's just a body to you, a nameless body. My father turned to face me, the sunlight shimmering silver down his long, platinum blonde hair. It was looking distinctly ragged due to his stay in Azkaban. I mean, it was improving, but still, you looked at it and thought _'Aargh! Split ends!'_ His eyes narrowed as he saw me. Father's feelings towards me are ambivalent. On the plus side I'm about as Malfoy as they come; arrogant, superior, self-confident, well-groomed, powerful. On the minus side he believed that I was marred by a streak of cowardice, because of my failure to kill Dumbledore. _Would you believe, Father, that only today I killed something? _Maybe not. But I am _not_ weak. And I am Malfoy; I am pure Malfoy, pureblood wizard, pure Malfoy. Family is still important to him, even if the Dark Lord is blinding him with his promises and slippery, serpentine words. My father feels an obligation of duty to me still. It had already proved useful to me today. I prayed that I would not need to test his feelings towards me again; that he would not be forced to choose between me and his master again. I don't think I could have stomached the answer.

"Draco." He laughed without humour. "It appears that one of your school friends had an attempt at flying, but forgot his broomstick." I frowned down at the body.

"Wait, are you trying to tell me that _that_ is Harry Potter?" Lord Voldemort snorted.

"What, you don't recognise him? Come down, Draco, and have a closer look." He smiled coldly up at me. "Unless you are feeling too delicate." The direct challenge stood there. Come down and crow over the remains to prove my disdain for opposite side. Or decline and stand accused of sympathy towards the enemy. I forced a smile.

"My Lord, I fear that I too am not very good at flying down without a broomstick; I shall instead take the stairs." He nodded towards me.

"Do come down, Draco. This is a triumphant hour for all of us who truly believe." Triumph? The mangled remains of an enemy he didn't even kill constituted a triumph to Lord Voldemort. I frowned as I stood up and closed the windows. But then, that was how the Dark Lord's reasoning went, wasn't it? It didn't matter how or why, but as long as the enemy was dead then you had won. Kill them all and then there would be no one left to challenge you. A crude strategy, lacking in subtlety. And, unfortunately, an effective strategy. Things had been a lot easier for the Dark Lord with Dumbledore out of the way, at least from what I'd heard.

I took the stairs slowly, apprehension rising in my throat. What was I doing? I was supposed to be avoiding Lord Voldemort. Any time I spent in the creature's company increased the risk of being found out, the risk of being caught, the risk of a horrible death. I know I keep repeating that but it was an extremely real threat. I'm not being melodramatic. I could easily have died that afternoon.

But I didn't.

I walked past my mother's room and took the time to look in on her. She was asleep on her bed, under the covers. Sparky sat like an ugly watchdog at the foot of the bed, guarding her mistress from herself. Sadness filled my heart. Was the reality of her family, the reality of me so terrible to my mother that she had to find an escape? Was I not worth holding on for? I shut the door quietly, chiding myself for my selfish emotions. The Malfoy curse; it's always me, me, me; and I only even noticed that this was a fault when _I_ was hurt. So indeed I was still caught in the cycle of me, me, and me.

Was that why I was doing this? As I descended down the staircase I subconsciously slipped my hand into my pocket and felt the warmth of that small, fragile body. Was that the only reason that I had played God and decided to give another human being a chance at living? To ultimately benefit me? It was an unsettling thought.

Malfoys do better without consciences, and I tried hard to banish mine as I crossed through the conservatory, opened the glass doors and stepped out into the patio, steeped in afternoon sunlight. It was too beautiful. The lawns were a vibrant green, the willows by the stream swayed gently in the light breeze. The roses entwined around the pergola in the Rose Walk were gorgeous; gentle shades of apricot, pink blushes and strident crimsons. Our patio was beautiful too; smooth black and white marble, polished daily by the house elves and surrounded by elegant marble statues. Here a pair of serpents twined around each other, there a magnificent wolf stood proud, one paw lifted, its tongue rolling over its perfect teeth, its eyes unseeing. I'd never particularly liked the statue of Hecate which the Dark Lord had shattered, but I disliked the marble fragments left behind even more. They were messy, out of place, interrupting the tranquillity of our grounds.

Speaking of interrupted tranquillity… there's nothing like a cadaver to achieve that effect. _It was just a house elf_ I told myself as I approached him. I doubted that my killing curse would have been needed now that I saw him clearly. The unnatural angle of the neck, the staved in forehead. There could be no dispute that he was killed by the fall, because the fall _would _have killed him, even if he wasn't already dead.

Lord Voldemort stood there, a predator's light in his eyes. Frantically I wondered what part I should play. He had already written me off as a coward. Should I appear unaffected, disinterested or jubilant? Should I wail in horror? Cringe away? Dance and crow? Or merely pull a face and allow him to lose all faith and interest in me? I opted for disgust tinged with quiet triumph.

"_That_ is Harry Potter?"

"Was Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort corrected jubilantly. I swear, he was this close to dancing on the spot. I shrugged.

"Yeah, well now it's kind of icky." My father looked like he had been force fed Skelegrow.

"Icky?" he demanded. Icky is a very un-Malfoy word I suppose.

"Forgive me Father, I mean to say that it looks less than lovely."

"Perhaps Draco has a problem with blood?" Lord Voldemort suggested. It was all he could do to keep himself from rubbing his hands together and cackling. "Or maybe he feels pity…"

"Pity?" I sneered. "Pity for a fool, whose head was so inflated by the dreams of others that it's a wonder he could come down from the quidditch pitch?" The Dark Lord laughed unkindly.

"A pity, then, that you will not be returning to Hogwarts. What with Potter dead, you might actually be able to win a quidditch game for once." Anger and embarrassment burned in me. I shot my Father a look which said quite plainly _'You traitor!'_ How dared he? Feeding this monster further stories about my failings? Was nothing private? "I am perfectly entitled to know the capabilities of all of my Deatheaters," Lord Voldemort said smoothly. Help! Was he reading my mind? "Even ones for which I have no use." Bile rose in my throat. I hate being humiliated. I hate it, I hate it. But it provided me a way out.

"Then if you have no use for me, would My Lord be kind enough to excuse me?" He waved a hand.

"You are dismissed."

"Your Lordship is too kind."

Perhaps it was dangerous, allowing myself to speak bitterly to the Dark Lord, allowing myself to signal my unhappiness with the situation to him. But he already knew that I was less than in love with him. By allowing him to focus on my own shortcomings I distracted him away from the issue at hand; the authenticity of the corpse.

I left the two of them to do whatever they wanted with the fake body. Well, of course it was a real body, but it was a body masquerading as another body. Officer, arrest that corpse for impersonation!

I didn't return to the Manor. I was running out of time; the sleeping potion might wear off at any time, and I needed to get rid of Potter as soon as possible. Crossing to the edge of the patio, I stepped up onto the Rose Walk – a wide, tiled path up through the lawns. A rustic pergola arches over it, with roses entwined around it. As I mentioned, they were at their best now, and as I stepped under them their heady scent filled my nose. The sunlight streamed down on their gorgeous petals. A mew caused me to look up. Carefully navigating the thorny branches laid across the pergola was my tabby cat: Misty. Misty, the strange cat with a fixation on rose petals. Maybe being a pet in the Malfoy household gave him a taste for class. Whatever the reason, he will insist on climbing up the pergola supports, taking his life in his paws by treading around the sharp thorns which could tear open his soft paw pads.

As I watched he made his way to a 'Cider cup' rose and took several of the petals in his mouth. A twist of his head and a shower of petals fell over me. With a happy 'mrrmm' he dropped to the path near my feet, three petals in his mouth. He let them fall to the ground, and then chewed each one up separately. Showing no interest in the other petals which he had dislodged, he turned and prepared to leap up again. I caught him before he could and he gave a protesting meow.

"Misty, you daft cat." His purr began, an alarmingly loud sound which shook his entire body, but still he squirmed to escape my grip. Misty likes laps, not shoulders, and will endeavour to leave your arms as soon as possible. Sighing I put him back down and rubbed his ears. He purred even harder and rolled over onto his side, paws waving wantonly in the air.

"Not now, Misty," I told him. "I'm too busy, I'm afraid." As I walked on he stood up and padded after me, mewing for my attention. When I ignored him his interest faded, and he turned back to the roses. Good. Misty, you can't follow me where I'm going.

Where was I going? Potter's friends would probably be at the headquarters of Dumbledore's Order thing which I had heard about. Order of the Goblin or something. I laughed. Order of the Bad-dressers more like. I mean, it contained Weasleys. Urgh. I patted my pocket thoughtfully.

"You sure you want to go back?" No answer. I hadn't expected one.

I passed out of the Rose Walk onto great rolling lawns and broke into a jog. It still took me at least a quarter of an hour to cross them. We have to have our lawns mown by teams of House Elves. As in Team Red, Team Blue and Team Green, each containing six elves. _That _is how large our lawns are. Which is why it took me so long to reach my destination. The Mighty Malfoy compost heaps. The one place on Malfoy grounds where one could Apparate. 'Why?' you may ask. Well, over the years Famille Malfois has learnt that enemies have a nasty habit of probing the defences around Malfoy Manor, searching for weaknesses. When they find the hole in our spells the dear little would-be assassins tend to get all excited and Apparate straight in without a second thought. And what do they Apparate into? Compost Heap number 2. Rumoured to supplement its diet of leaves, branches and grass cuttings with the occasional house elf. I kid you not. I believe we have the world's only carnivorous compost heap. Not many dear little would-be assassins get very far.

I Apparated to Diagon Alley, keeping one hand gently wrapped around Potter's tiny body to keep him with me. Diagon Alley. A place which contained a shop I swore I would never in a million years enter. Guessed it yet? Weasley's mangey Wizard Wheezes. Ye gods. The things I am reduced to doing. At least that dreadful U-No-Poo poster had vanished from the window. I read the replacement and fought the urge to snigger. Simple amusement for simple people.

_Feeling down? Worried? Stressed? _

_We have the answer!_

_My Little Dark Lord! With accessories!! And followers!_

_Brush his hair, change his robes! Eyes pop when he is strangled!_

"They can not be serious!" I snorted. But they were. Displayed prominently in the window were small figurines of the Dark Lord, Aunt Bellatrix dressed in a black corset with a little whip (ooh, I couldn't wait to tell her about that!), my Father (wearing blue ribbons in his long blonde locks) and a particularly grotesque little figure with yards of greasy hair that I could only suppose was Snape. I could feel nervous hysteria catching up with me, and fought the urge to giggle uncontrollably. Malfoys do not giggle. We snigger, we snicker, we cackle, we laugh unkindly. We occasionally indulge in a drunken titter. But we don't giggle.

Business was slow that day – too many people on holiday or out enjoying the glorious sunshine. I noted only a few customers as I pushed the door open. I scanned their faces and recognised none. The eyes of a pair of teenage witches told me they recognised me. I shrugged. Not my problem. One of the red-haired twins was at the counter. Do not ask me which one. I have never bothered learning to tell them apart. As I approached him his gaze was hostile.

"Hey Malfoy, why don't you leave now before I curse you?" I sneered.

"Believe me I take no pleasure in being here, Weasley. I'm not buying."

"Good. Because to you we're not selling." I smiled.

"Oh, but _I_ am." Weasley shrugged.

"I'm not interested in whatever sordid little toy you've brought along, Draco. Why don't you run along now like a good little ferret?" I leaned forwards over the counter.

"Seen your friend Wonder-boy recently?" His expression was enough – he knew Potter was missing. I reached into my pocket and brought out my handkerchief. Weasley's eyes widened as he saw the head sticking out of the top of it.

"That's Harry?"

"Yes. He's going to need medical attention." Weasley's wand came out faster than I could blink.

"What did you do to him, Malfoy you worm?" I shrugged and covered Potter protectively with my fingers.

"Nothing at all. Well, actually I saved his life, risking my own. The Dark Lord was the one who hurt him, idiot." I saw his lips silently form the word 'Voldemort'. "Well done, genius." I tossed my head scornfully, just because I knew it would wind himup.

"Why?" Weasley asked. I groaned inwardly. I was sick and tired of this. I placed Potter centrally on the counter.

"You're supposed to like him. Just take him home, ok?" Wherever his home is now. With that I Apparated away. Without thinking. Back to the compost heaps.

"AARRRGGHHHH!!!! IT'S ICKY!!!!"

_Yay, another nice long chapter. And Harry's finally safe (we think). Good chapter? Review!_


	5. Letters

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Summary: Now that Harry's safe, Draco thinks he can forget everything that happened. He has no idea how wrong he is…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, they belong to J. K. Rowling. Sigh.

A/N – Gosh, look at that! Double figures of reviews! Wow, thank you guys! I'm glad you like the story. I seem to be churning out chapters really fast at the moment – enjoy it whilst my imagination lasts! I'm sure I'm due a spot of writer's block any minute now…

**Letters**

Two days, five baths later, and I was beginning to hope that the whole thing was forgotten. The Dark Lord had flambéed Bilpy's corpse and left. Father hadn't mentioned anything about the whole incident and Mother hadn't hurt herself again. I had made a point of spending time with her after she'd cut her hands; playing chess, talking, eating together, and she was almost back to her old haughty self. I'd even seen her punish a House Elf for bringing lukewarm soup. Peace and tranquillity reigned in the Malfoy household. It was far too good to last.

The Snowy Owl tapped at the window with its beak again. I frowned, put down the book I was reading and crossed the room to let it in. It flew in with a disgruntled hoot and settled on the back of my chair. Misty eyed it warily from where he lay, sprawled across my bed. I liberated the letter from its beak, and turned it over in my hands. I had a feeling that the writing was familiar, but I couldn't put a name to the author.

_Mr D. Malfoy,_

_Malfoy Manor,_

_Wiltshire_

There was no family seal – just a blob of wax holding the envelope shut. I was not worried, not even very curious as I opened it. After all, I've had my share of anonymous mail.

_Dear Mr Malfoy, please, please tell me the secret of getting your hair to look so awesome. I would sooo be in your debt forever more._

_Yours, Mr Loser._

_Dear Draco, you are like the coolest person in the world and I am truly in love you. Will you go out with me?_

_Yours, Miss Loser._

I had very little interest in these sorts of letters, and I never dignified them with an answer. After my flight from Hogwarts I'd received a few Howlers from intuitive students who put Dumbledore's death and my disappearance together and made five. Hate mail didn't bother me. Malfoys do not need to be liked as long as they are respected and feared. And I was certainly feared. I'd featured in several Daily Prophet articles already, where various reporters had exclaimed over how tragic it was that I'd felt a need to follow in my Father's footsteps. Yeah, it's tragic, but on a far more personal level then they could ever guess.

One glance at the letter once I'd unfolded it told me that this was not hate mail. This was a serious letter, and if it fell in the wrong hands it could get me killed. Surreptitiously I stood up and poked my head out into the deserted corridor, and then closed the door quietly and turned the key in the lock. Father could open it with a spell if he really wanted to, but the noise he made would give me time enough to hide the letter before he entered. Feeling safer, I sat on the bed and idly stroked Misty with one hand. The other smoothed out the letter out on my knee, and I began reading.

_Malfoy,_

_I suppose I owe you a debt of thanks. I don't know why you helped me (your explanation was extremely brief), and I'm not entirely thrilled that you pulled that trick on me, but the result is that you saved my life. Well done you. The question which springs to mind instantly is 'what do you want out of it?' What do I have to do to lose the debt? You're a shrewd person, Draco, and you do everything for a reason. So, what was the reason this time? Send Hedwig back with the reply._

_Yours, Harry Potter._

I turned the letter over and found a post-script.

_Ps – Be careful what you wish for, Draco. Any stupid requests and I'll just forget the whole thing._

His formality surprised me – I suppose I was unused to regarding him as someone to be taken seriously until the bathroom incident, and after that I had seen him as a tempestuous child with unexpected powers. Yet he wrote like a mature adult.

After rereading the letter twice I sat back, my mind whizzing through possibilities. I hadn't foreseen anything like this. Silly Gryffindors, so bothered about their duty and doing what was right. Slytherins are far more sensible. You saved my life? Wow, thanks! For that I won't curse you to oblivion. I had believed that my interaction with Harry Potter had finished the second I Apparated out of that wretched shop. I would never have gone chasing him for payment off my own bat. But here he was offering me anything I asked for. Well, nearly anything. It was almost too good to be true. How much did Potter value his own life? I wondered. What sort of price would he be willing to pay in return for it? His Snowy Owl, Hedwig, hooted impatiently and I rooted around in my desk for some owl treats to shut her up. Decisions like this simply could not be rushed.

Two hours later and I was still musing. One could not simply ask for the latest broomstick, or a thousand galleons. Here was a chance for me to escape this hellish mess I was caught in. A chance for me to escape Lord Voldemort. Or was it? Potter was not the world's best at protecting others and people who were close to him tended to experience fatal doses of Avada Kadavra. If I publicly crossed to Potter's side, asking for his protection as my payment, then Lord Voldemort would hunt me down. Even failed Deatheaters are expected to be completely loyal. I didn't fancy making myself and my family a target, and anyway, crossing to Potter's side would sever all remaining fragile ties between me and my father. He would disown me, and almost certainly try to kill me himself, in an attempt to prove his own loyalty to the Dark Lord. So I could not simply take this as a ticket out. I had to be subtle. I had to gain without losing. Finally I decided on my reply. I copied his formal tone, determined to maintain the distance between us. I still hated him; I still didn't want to get close to him. Carefully I laid out my request so that it would not seem like a plea but a demand. I had no intention of appearing weakened.

_Potter,_

_Very well then, if you feel indebted to me then who am I to argue? I want immunity from your Aurors for me and my mother. Neither of us has committed any crime, yet the Daily Prophet is full of letters clamouring for me to be sent to Azkaban. 'Degraded Prisoner' is so not my look and I don't do dirt. Moreover, my mother's mental health is fragile at the moment. I want a personal promise from you that if I am caught by Aurors neither I nor my mother will be sent to Azkaban, I will not be tortured and she will not be upset. Surely this a reasonable price for saving the life of the great Chosen One?_

_Draco Malfoy._

I sealed the envelope with a blob of red wax, and then pressed my ring into the wax whilst it was still soft. When I lifted my ring the impression of the Malfoy crest remained. A black cat (very Mal Fois) wearing a serpent entwined around its neck as a collar. Malfoys traditionally have cats as pets in deference to the crest, which is why I had Misty. He didn't wear a real serpent, but his golden collar was in the shape of one, with small rubies for the eyes. I reached out to stroke him, and his purr vibrated against my fingertips. Misty. Another point on which I had disagreed with my father. He wanted me to have a black cat, as befitted a Malfoy, and when I stuck through thick and thin to Misty (a gift from an old friend of mine who died long ago) I was allowed to keep him on the condition that he didn't go to Hogwarts with me. When I returned after my first term I was convinced that I'd find Misty drowned in the pond. My fears were unrealised; he greeted me with his customary 'prrrp' and I understood that my mother must have persuaded my father to tolerate him.

Hedwig had almost fallen asleep, but her eyes snapped open when I walked over to her and tied the letter to her leg. I opened the window for her and she flew away into the darkening sky. Dusk was falling. I wondered how long she'd take to reach Potter, and I envisioned him, perhaps lying on his bed reading, looking up when she reached the window, much as I had. I imagined his feelings when he saw my letter – apprehension, fear? Did he dread the answer, fearing that I'd ask too much? Was he just impatient to close this chapter of his life? What would his answer be? Restlessness seized me. Already the waiting was getting to me, and it was only a few minutes after the owl had left. In frustration I grabbed my broomstick and went for an evening flight over Malfoy grounds. When I returned, tired and exhilarated, I fell asleep almost immediately.

Hedwig was back the following morning. A very fast turn-around, indicating that Potter was staying in South England, like me. Most likely in London. As I let the exhausted owl in, she gave a disgruntled hoot and sat on the back of the chair again. With trembling fingers I broke the blank seal and pulled out the parchment.

_Draco,_

_I know that you haven't committed any crimes. I saw you with Dumbledore, and I know it was Snape, not you, who killed him. I know that you didn't want to. That said, the deal you propose will only work if you remain blameless. I can not shelter you if you have killed muggles, or tortured people or helped Lord Voldemort in any way that leads to the pain of others. I understand that you are in danger and want to help you. I can promise you the protection you want for you and your mother only if you keep to the terms I laid out above. _

_However, there was a reason I was near Malfoy Manor three days ago. I want something which I have reason to believe should be somewhere in your house. Your father may not even know it's there, but I have reliable information telling me it is in your attics. I am referring to a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles and an engraving of a badger on it. If you find it and get it to me, Draco, I will offer you and your mother complete asylum forever, no matter what your crimes are. This is an offer I do not think you can afford to pass up._

_Harry Potter._

_Ps – Draco, this cup is important to Voldemort, so I will not lie to you. If he catches you with it he will kill you. If you take it to him I doubt you will receive much gratitude; he hid it for a reason._

_Oh, and if you want to earn a little extra, you wouldn't have any idea who the initials R.A.B belong to would you? Someone who was probably murdered by Lord Voldemort._

Frowning, I reached for a blank piece of parchment.

_Potter,_

_First off, have you no consideration for your bird? Hedwig is about to collapse and I doubt she would survive another trip. The owl I'm sending this with is called Mercury, and he's allergic to owl treats. Do NOT feed him. I will charge you for a new bird if you do and he chokes to death._

_Secondly, how the hell am I supposed to find this cup in my house? Do you have any idea how large Malfoy Manor attics are? And what the hell is it? If Voldemort values it so highly it doesn't sound like the sort of thing I really want to handle. I'll keep an eye out for it, but I would appreciate a touch more information about what I'll be risking my life for._

_Thirdly, our primary deal starts the second you read these words – if I am arrested tomorrow I expect to see you there, ready to bail me out in an instant._

_And finally, I recall a relative of mine named Regulus Black, a Deatheater who was killed a while ago. He was the brother of your godfather Sirius. I'm a bit hazy on the details. Could this be your R.A.B? What do I get if it is?_

_Draco Malfoy._

I folded the letter into an envelope, sealed and addressed it and then opened my windows and leant out. Hedwig shifted tiredly, but I ignored her and gave a shrill whistle. No reply. I whistled again. Still nothing, and then, there! A shadowy shape soaring through the morning haze towards me. I held out my arm and the Eagle Owl flared his wings and latched onto it gently. Hedwig hooted behind me in alarm behind me and I laughed as I pulled my torso back into the room, Mercury clinging on.

"Does he scare you, Snowy?" Mercury was certainly an impressive owl, weighing in at near 8.5 pounds. My arm ached already from supporting him. "Don't worry; he doesn't eat owls unless I tell him to." Mercury clicked his large beak impatiently and I tied the letter to his leg, then walked back to the window and leant out. "Off you go." He opened his wings with a clap and flapped away. Hedwig hooted softly and I tossed her some owl treats. "Get some rest, Snowy. Misty's too well behaved to bother you."

I had nothing planned for the day, and despite my feigned disinterest in truth I was extremely curious about the cup Potter described. Whatever it was, it was important enough that he was willing to forgive all misdemeanours to secure it. It was obviously a valuable bargaining piece and I intended to find it. As I set off for the attics I passed my mother's rooms and glanced in at her. She was propped up by pillows, reading, a serene expression on her face. I didn't want to disturb her, but she glanced up and saw me before I could withdraw.

"Good morning Draco." I entered the room and sat on the edge of her bed.

"Good morning Mother. How are you this morning?"

"It's cold," she complained.

"It's a glorious summer morning, Mother. See, the sun is shining." I pointed out of the window. "Perhaps if you came out into the garden and read there?"

"Perhaps," she agreed. "I don't know why, but this house is so cold. It's like I'm a tiny flame wandering around, and I can't warm the rooms up." I laughed at the image.

"If it truly bothers you, Mother, have the elves build you a fire." She nodded, and then a light entered her eyes.

"Draco, I've just had the most marvellous idea! Your new school term is coming up, and you'll need new sets of robes. How about a trip to London, to Twilfitt and Tatting's? And lunch at Rossini's? What do you say?" My heart sank as I saw the genuine joy in her eyes at the prospect. Even though she was sitting right next to me, my mother was far away, in a place where I was still going to Hogwarts and we could walk around London like anyone else.

"Not today, Mother," I said gently, my heart breaking as the light faded. "Perhaps tomorrow."

"Yes, maybe," she replied, and I could hear the disappointment loud and clear.

I frowned, groping for a way to give her life any meaning.

"Perhaps we could invite Aunt Bellatrix to lunch?" She smiled genuinely and I felt a profound sadness. Must I hide the truth from you always? Must I always fob you off with other amusements, all the time finding excuse after excuse to confine you to the Manor? Forgive me, Mother. Forgive me.

"Yes. I have not seen Bella for too long. It would be good to have her over."

"Write the invitation and I'll send it now," I promised. She opened a drawer in her bedside table and took out parchment and a quill. I leant over her shoulder and read her words.

_Dearest Bella, _

_Would you and Rudolphus like to come over to lunch today? Just a small affair, I'm afraid-_

She paused mid-sentence.

"Will Lucius be there?"

"And me," I told her. She resumed her letter.

_Just a small affair, I'm afraid. The three of us and the two of you. It would do Draco good to see his Aunt again, and it would do me good to see you too. _

_Love, Cissy._

"There. Good?"

"Perfect," I assured her. Praying that Aunt Bellatrix would accept, I crossed to the fireplace, started a fire and flung some Floo Powder onto the flames.

"Erebos!" The flames blazed green, opening up a pathway between Malfoy Manor and my Aunt's mansion, Erebos. I tossed the letter into the flames and watched as it vanished.

"That's warmer now," my mother said happily.

Less than two minutes later the flames burned emerald green and a sheet of parchment flew out from them into my hand.

_Cissy,_

_Of course I'll come. I shall see you later this morning._

_Bellatrix._

Relief flooded me. I was a pariah, and many of the Deatheaters were avoiding us, much to my father's annoyance. But Aunt Bellatrix was there when we needed her. My Aunt, a woman who had little patience for her own sister's illness, and yet who would come when asked for. A woman embittered and maddened by Azkaban, who prized strength and despised weakness, and yet still capable of recognising her sister's need for comfort. Still able to respond. I admired her so much for it.

"Mother, she says she'll come," I cried joyfully. My mother lifted her eyes from her book, confusion on her face.

"Who, Draco?" Helplessness flooded through me. _I'm losing you, I'm losing you! You're right here, and yet you're slipping through my fingers. Come back, Mother, please, please come back._

"Aunt Bellatrix, Mother. She's coming to lunch." My mother positively beamed.

"How wonderful! But Draco, I look simply frightful! I must wash, dress. Oh, it's such short notice, but she does insist on doing this, does Bella. Always has done." I leant down and kissed her forehead gently.

"You look beautiful, Mother." She laughed.

"It's nice of you to say so, Draco."

I left her chirping happily to Sparky about what dress she wanted to wear, I had no doubt she would look stunning. My mother may have lost her wits but she could walk through a national disaster and emerge without a hair out of place. It's a Malfoy gift, I suppose. Malfoy. Looking at my parents, you could not distinguish between them and say who was originally Malfoy and who wasn't. Both have the platinum blonde hair, the stunning looks, and the high cheek bones. We are blessed as a family, I suppose. My Mother had even somehow managed to have the Malfoy eyes, despite being born Black. The Malfoy eyes. Liquid gold some days, molten silver others, they shifted according to our mood swings. It seemed almost inconceivable that my father was originally engaged to Aunt Bellatrix. What a contrast she made to us! How ill-suited a pair they would have looked. But perhaps they would have matched each other in temperament. I could just imagine them both fuming over the latest development in this war whilst enjoying a glass of port in the library. My mother rarely drank, much to my father's dismay.

I loved my mother very much. And I had a duty to her as a Malfoy. Familial obligations are the one aspect of duty Slytherins do tend to have. I resolved to find this strange cup Potter wanted so much, not just for my sake, but for my mother's as well.

_Haha – time to meet the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange next chapter! I can't wait to write her; she's such a cool character! Anyways, now that you've read it allow me to point you to the little 'Submit Review' button down at the bottom…_


	6. Flames

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Summary: Now that Harry's safe, Draco thinks he can forget everything that happened. He has no idea how wrong he is…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters; they belong to J. K. Rowling. Sigh.

A/N – A mega thank you to all of you who reviewed. I do try and answer them all, so if I've overlooked you let me know!! Here it is, here it is! Chapter 6! Completed on my birthday! This was a hard chapter to write, so I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Flames

The attics of Malfoy Manor. We've been there before. I shivered as I climbed the ladder and stepped onto the wooden boards. The windows I had flung Bilpy out of had been repaired, the gleam on the new glass almost blinding as the morning sunlight caught it. I could trace scuff marks through the dust – the outlines of expensive shoes where my father had trod, and bare footprints where Lord Voldemort had placed his feet. It's strange how eerie and unnerving those footprints were, a reminder of an evil that had trod nakedly here and left its mark. Subconsciously I stroked my left wrist. The Dark Mark blazed there, black and triumphant, branding me as cursed and clear for the entire world to see; in the hot weather I wore only a blue tee-shirt and jeans.

The charred stump was gone, thank god. Disintegrated? I wondered. Or had Lord Voldemort taken it with him as a souvenir of that day. I could easily imagine him on cold winter nights taking out his trophy and stroking the filthy object. The knife was gone too; another memento of the day 'Harry Potter' died? What remained was the furniture. Mountains of clutter. Malfoys are squirrels; we don't throw away anything that could one day be useful. Much can be repaired (vanishing cupboards for example); many of these objects could still have a further part to play in my family's history.

And so I spent that sunny morning locked away in a dust-filled attic shifting through the furniture and other detritus. It was backbreaking work, hefting three-legged chairs, mahogany tables and cracked mirrors around, but I dared not summon a House Elf. No one could know what I was doing. If my absence was questioned I planned to say that I had gone flying.

Where would the Dark Lord have hidden his cup? Somewhere it would be safe and protected, I thought, rooting through chests of mouldering curtains and wedding dresses from brides long dead. Somewhere it would not be noticed, I mused, sorting through a cabinet of old silverware. Somewhere clever where it would never be found, I considered, pushing my hand into the open beak of an ancient stuffed hippogriff. The dust rose around me, gumming up my eyes and tickling my nose. I paused to sneeze and caught sight of myself in a splintered mirror. My multi-faceted counterpart stared back, eyes red and irritated, face grimy, hands dirty, shirt stained, and (my breath caught) hair ruffled. This couldn't go on. And then it hit me. I am, very rarely, an absolute idiot. I pulled out my wand, as I should have done right at the beginning.

"_Accio cup_! Yaarrrgh!" I ducked to avoid the hail of goblets which flew at my head from all sorts of places. I sorted through them in vain. The one I wanted wasn't there. OK, do not give up at the first hurdle, Draco. I tried again. "_Accio cup!_" There! I heard it! A rattling in the Victorian writing desk I had leant Bilpy against. Gingerly I eased the drawers open. Nestling in a box of silk in the bottom drawer was a little golden cup with two handles. An embossed badger stared up at me. I'd found it! Yes! I'd found it!

Not knowing what it was, I didn't dare touch it, but instead closed the lid of the box back over it and attempted to transfigure it into a book. It refused to change. After four more tries I was stumped – the thing wilfully resisted all attempts to charm it. Sighing, I picked it up carefully, snuck down to my room and hid it in my underwear drawer. No one would go looking in there. Then I grabbed sheet of parchment, scribbled that I had the cup and sent it off with Myfwany, my Mother's owl, to Potter.

That done, I washed and changed, then took a book, planning to read it out in the garden. My father was sitting in the conservatory reading, but glanced up as I walked by.

"Draco?" I halted and turned to face him.

"Yes Father?" He marked his place in the book and set it aside.

"It occurs to me that I have not had a chance to speak to you since Potter's suicide." My heart quickened. Would the past never be past? "I wanted to ask you," he continued, "how you are feeling." I swallowed.

"Harry Potter was nothing to me. I'm glad he's dead, Father, truly. I only wish his filthy friends could have been there to see it."

"Yes." He absentmindedly pulled a lock of his hair over his left shoulder and braided it, and I knew he was thinking hard. My father always fiddles with his hair when he thinks. "Naturally you are exultant due to the death of an enemy, and yet you do not appear ecstatic to me. In fact I perceive that you barely care."

"Father?" I was nervous now. I could not see where this conversation was headed, but I doubted that it would be a pleasant final destination. My father sighed.

"Draco, the Dark Lord is less than enamoured with you. It might be an idea for you to revise your attitude."

"You wish me to appear more enthused than I truly am? The Dark Lord would see through false fervour in an instant, Father, and despise me for it." He nodded, and his fingers twisted the strands slightly faster.

"True, Draco. I do not wish for you to make a fool of yourself. I want you to show a deeper interest in the Dark Lord's work. I want you to persuade him, and yourself, that you believe in his cause, that you wish to see it through to completion."

"And if I don't believe in him, Father?" I was nearly whispering now. My father shrugged and flicked the braid over his shoulder. His fingers combed the hair on the right.

"That is neither here nor there, Draco. The Dark Lord does not ask for your heart, he asks for your actions. You would be wise to show willing the next time he comes here looking for something." I met his cold, silver gaze. "Because I can not protect you from him, no matter how much I want to."

Pity suddenly struck me, pity for a man who had sold himself without realising that his son would become part of the deal. I had never had a choice in where my loyalties lay, and my father understood this. Are you with the Mudbloods? No? Then you must be with Lord Voldemort. But true life was not as simple as generalisations. I despised Mudbloods, and muggle sympathisers and inter-marriage, but the answer was not Lord Voldemort. The problem could be solved simply by exterminating all muggles. Voldemort represented a crusade against Dumbledore, not a crusade against muggles. And with Dumbledore gone it became a crusade against anyone who had supported Dumbledore. When they had all died would it become a campaign against all who did not truly believe in him? And finally a war against his own, in a bid to find the fiercest, the most loyal. Were there any limits to his paranoia? Would he not rest until the only one left who could wield a wand was himself?

And this was the madness in which my father was ensnared. Worse, this was the madness he had trapped me in. Try as we might, neither of us could escape. For my father it was not too terrible – I am sure he still believed in his Lord, even if his temper rose as he bowed, and he was forced to swallow the bile whilst simpering obsequies. But my father could see the depths of my misery. Malfoys act as if arrows simply bounce off us; our armour is indifference. But what had happened to my mother, what was happening to me bit too deep to shrug off. Every encounter with the Dark Lord I was taunted and humiliated; I had been branded a coward and a fool. I am not either. But there is no room in the Dark Lord's ranks for the believer in laisser-faire, and so I was thrust to the bottom of the heap and trampled upon. My father knows this, and yet he watches powerless as his only son is derided, as he is forced to join in.

On an impulse I placed my book on the glass topped table, walked forward and hugged my father. The depth of his returning embrace told me that he understood much of my feelings. _But not all, Father. You have no idea of the depths of my treachery. You can not comprehend how I defied the Dark Lord on a simple whim. And it is not over. It keeps returning, until one day the Grim Reaper himself will knock on the door and remind me of that day. He will throw back his hood and his eyes will blaze scarlet as his wand blazes green. _I clung tighter to my father than I had for a long time, and for a few seconds the mask cracked, the indifference slipped and I was a terrified child caught up in a whirlpool that threatened to drown me at any minute.

_But no longer, Father. I'll find a way out, for me, for my mother. And then you can obey your Lord and hunt us down with a clear conscience. Would you still think me weak and foolish in my defiance? Would you mock me for it? Or would you hate me? I'd like you to hate me. Hatred entails respect. I don't think I could stand your indifference, I don't think I could stand those narrow doors to your soul slamming shut. I'd still need you to feel for me. I'd still need you to care. Promise me that, Father. Promise you'll never forget me, never dismiss me like that. I am Malfoy. Promise me._

"Promise me," I murmured.

"Hmm?" His breath tickled my ear.

"Promise me…"

"Yes?"

"Promise me you will not forget me." He laughed gently as I clung to him in despair, a drowning man latched onto an uncertain spar. My mother loves me, but I do not have the certainty from her that I needed so desperately from him.

"Never," he swore. "Never ever." I pulled away from him and our gazes locked.

"You're certain?" He reached out with his finger and smoothed my fringe back from my brow. I jerked back in annoyance. "I hate it when you do that."

"I know you do." He sounded amused. "Sixteen years since I first did that, and I have not forgotten that first look of horror on your tiny face." I smiled. It was an odd way of answering me, but it was enough for now.

"Well, isn't this touching?" a voice purred from behind me. We sprang apart and I turned to face my Aunt. Affection surged through my heart as I surveyed her. Powerful and reliable, she had not forsaken me when others had. I knew that she risked Lord Voldemort's displeasure for it, knew that that hurt her deeply, but still she stood by us.

"Aunt Bellatrix, you look well." I hugged her, smelling her familiar perfume. A deeper scent than the delicate fragrance my mother used, and it suited her perfectly. I broke the embrace and turned to Uncle Rudolphus. To say he looked well would be an understatement. Once paid for modelling broomsticks, he retained vestiges of his handsome features, and the ravages of Azkaban were less prominent than when he had first escaped. He smiled, and it was still the glamorous smile that had rivalled Sirius Black's in his school days.

"Draco. I hear you've been having quite an exciting week." I forced a harsh laugh.

"Perhaps Lord Voldemort has told you that Potter attempted flying without his broomstick. Dramatic yet foolish gestures appear to run in his family; we can only thank God he didn't survive long enough to breed." My aunt's mouth pinched in an expression of disgust.

"Uurgh; imagine having three or four of the little beasts running around."

"We have been spared a terrible plague," my father agreed as he stood up. "Bellatrix."

"Lucius," she replied, a touch coolly. My father lifted her right hands to his lips, and she dipped her head for a minute. The two of them co-existed for the sake of my mother and me, but he had still not forgiven her for fleeing and leaving him to go to Azkaban. She on the other hand had been furious that she lost favour with the Dark Lord because an operation Father was in charge of had failed so catastrophically. The death of Black had been a wholly inadequate consolation prize.

Uncle Rudolphus tends to be ruled by Bellatrix, so he too was less than warm with my father. They exchanged names and handshakes, and my father suggested they look at something in his study. As they went out I could see the smile forming on Uncle Rudolphus' lips; in truth he got on exceptionally well with Father, and would no doubt appreciate some alone time with him. I turned back to my aunt, who crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side. Recognising instantly what she was doing I slammed up the mental defences. _Brick wall. No bricks are loose. You can't get in. _She laughed.

"Pretty good, Draco. But in the time it took you to think I'd already seen dust, grime and furniture. What were you doing in the attics this morning?"

"Searching for an old medallion Mother had told me was hidden there," I replied smoothly. "I fear she may be exaggerating its properties, but I was in a mood to humour her." My aunt nodded, satisfied. Inside I breathed a sigh of relief. This was a danger I had not foreseen – Aunt Bellatrix was almost as good a leglimans as the Dark Lord (although she lost focus when highly emotional) and I was more likely to let my guard down around her. I resolved to concentrate on my brick wall _extremely_ hard. On the outside I smiled lightly.

"My mother is in the garden. Shall we join her?"

"Yes, we should," she agreed. I snapped my fingers and a House Elf appeared with a bang.

"You, bring us drinks in the garden. I'll have iced lemonade, as will my mother. Aunt Bellatrix?"

"Caiparinia," she replied. "Not in the mood to join me in a cocktail, Draco?"

"I have a slight headache, Aunt. I don't wish to provoke it." _And I can't afford to lose focus around you. _She shrugged. I turned back to the Elf. "And we'll have lunch in the garden too, on the table by the magnolias." The Elf bowed and vanished.

Aunt Bellatrix laughed.

"What's amused you, Aunt?"

"It's just, seeing you order those Elves around, it reminds me. You are seventeen – a man now." I pricked up my ears.

"Will you teach me those spells you would not before? Now that I am older."

"Perhaps," she replied. "When you have demonstrated competence with all three Unforgivables, as I taught you."

"I haven't had a chance," I protested feebly, as we stepped onto the patio. She laughed again and tossed her head.

"_Haven't had a chance?_ Why Draco, I'm afraid I must beg to differ. Surely you could have found some weak willed person in Hogwarts whom you could practice Imperious on?"

"I did though," I said, suddenly eager. "I started on House Elves and I could make them do as I wanted."

"Not hard," she interrupted.

"And I moved onto Hufflepuff First Years and I could control them. I dared not do anyone in my own year, because they'd all recognise the spell, and tell the professors afterwards."

"You could have wiped their memories."

"I was keeping a low profile, Aunt. I didn't want to draw attention to myself." We were crossing the lawn now, and I could see my mother, lying in a chair in a cream dress, reading. She didn't appear to have noticed our approach.

"How about the Cruciatus curse? Have you successfully used that?" The memory of a girls' bathroom rose in my mind.

"I tried to, once."

"_Tried_?"

"I was caught unawares by a curse. I didn't expect my opponent to know such a spell. I didn't find a chance after that." She smiled dangerously and halted on the grass, just out of earshot of my mother.

"And the killing curse, Draco. Don't tell me you didn't have a chance to perform that." I squirmed in her gaze, and frantically shoved all thoughts of Bilpy to the back of my mind. She sighed. "What is the point of me teaching you these spells, Draco, if you won't use them?"

"But I will," I said desperately. "I would have used the Cruciatus curse, and I will in future."

"But you won't kill." She raised a hand. "No, I don't want excuses or arguments. It would be a pity to ruin such a nice day, and I had precious few of them in Azkaban." She raised her face to the blue sky and closed her eyes as the sunlight played across her features, then turned, and clapped her hands. "Cissy! Dearest!"

"Bellatrix! I'm so glad you could come," my mother replied. I smiled; at least she remembered who my aunt was, and why she was here.

We sat in lawn chairs and Aunt Bellatrix and Mother talked. About the latest fashions, about far flung elements of the family, about Bellatrix's plans to buy a new horse. My aunt is horse-mad, and a requirement on any horse she will take is that it be big and black and able to rear magnificently in sunsets.

Tactfully both of them avoided mentioning politics, and I was grateful to my Aunt. My mother didn't need the reality of Lord Voldemort thrust into her face again.

Bored, I picked up my mother's discarded book. A romantic novel. Uurgh. I put it back in disgust. A House Elf came with our drinks.

"About time," I hissed at it. Bowing clumsily, it mumbled that lunch would be served in half an hour. I charged it with notifying my father, who could happily forsake all meals when viewing something of interest in his study, then dismissed it.

"Harry Potter." Hmm? I lifted my head, the mention of the words branded on my brain triggering instant alerts.

"What about Potter?" Bellatrix turned her attention to me.

"I was just saying how typical it is of that fool to be caught near Malfoy Manor."

"I wonder what he was trying to do here, anyway," my mother mused. Aunt Bellatrix shrugged.

"Probably something highly heroic. Does it matter? He's dead now, isn't he Draco?" _No, he's not, Aunty dearest. He's alive, and he's talking to me, and I, well, I suppose I'm working for him. I'm certainly helping him; in fact I've already helped him, AND fooled Lord Voldemort to boot._ She choked into her caiparinia, breaking my reverie.

"Bella? Something wrong?" my mother asked. Bellatrix banged her chest and stopped coughing with an effort, red faced.

"Nothing. Drink went down the wrong way." She smiled, but her eyes were unnervingly cold.

"Cissy, I want to show you this new horse I'm considering. You've always had such an eye for excellence. Will you stay tonight at Erebos?"

"Well…" my mother considered. Bellatrix took her hand.

"Oh Cissy, do. You must."

"Very well, then," my mother agreed. "Although I'm afraid I have limited experience of horses. Ever since Draco left I haven't had much interest in anything." Her brow furrowed in a frown. I sighed.

"Mother? I'm right here."

"So you are," she said. "That's funny. I could have sworn you went somewhere. Maybe Lucius can tell me when he returns." Bellatrix rolled her eyes and sat back.

"Father's here too, Mother."

"Where?" she asked, looking around.

"In the house. You'll see him at lunch."

"And Draco. I'll see Draco too?"

"Yes," I promised her. "You'll see Draco too."

Lunch came and went. The food was excellent, the conversation again devoid of all references to Lord Voldemort. During the afternoon we all played Wizard Racing Demons, with cards that leapt from our hands to the tables and fought each other for positions in the piles. Then Father and Bellatrix played Wizard Chess, whilst Mother and Rudolphus went for a walk.

I watched the chess, admiring the way Bellatrix and my Father complimented each other, polar opposites sitting on either side of the board. He was fair where she was dark and bold, and their styles of playing differed too. My father favoured subtlety, sending his bishops and knights darting behind enemy lines and out again, whereas my Aunt would martial her troops and march them forwards in rows, decimating any pieces in her path. In the end they each won two games, and I sensed that somewhere along the way, amidst the shouting, hand waving and occasional cries of 'More Port!' they had thawed out a little. In fact they were almost polite.

When my Mother returned from the walk she went to her room, to pack for her stay with Aunt Bellatrix. When I say pack, I mean pack in the Malfoy sense of the word, i.e. lying on a bed directing sweating House Elves. I dropped in on her, and was gratified to see Sparky swathed in dresses as my mother dithered over what one to wear the next day. I chose a rose pink one for her, then took Sparky aside and charged her with accompanying my mother to Erebos and watching over her.

Aunt Bellatrix was in an unusual hurry to leave. She practically dragged Uncle Rudolphus away from Father and the fossilised dragon egg they were studying, and was less than patient with my mother. She struck me as a modern day Cinderella – anxious to be home before the clock struck. At last, once my mother felt truly prepared, they started a fire in the drawing room. My uncle went first, tossing the Floo powder in and vanishing in the green fire. Then my mother stepped into the fireplace after kissing me, with Sparky carrying her trunk just behind her. My Aunt nodded a farewell to my father, who replied in kind, and then took me aside.

"Draco, it has been good to see you."

"And you, Aunt." She held me at arm's length, running her eyes over my face as if to memorise the features.

"I will take good care of your mother, Draco, and keep her safe." It seemed an odd thing to say, but I smiled.

"Thank you, Aunt." On an impulse she hugged me hard, her scent filling my nostrils.

"When I left Azkaban, seeing you grown… it brought home to me how much I had missed. I am glad I did not miss you entirely." I hugged her back.

"I am glad that we have met too," I replied. I wriggled and laughed. "Does this mean you'll teach me more spells?"

"We'll see," she murmured. Then she released me and stepped into the green flames, her face hidden by her long dark hair.

My father stretched.

"Alone at last. Chess, Draco? I need a decisive win to finish this day." I shrugged.

"Later, perhaps. There's something I need to attend to in my room." He nodded, and I left.

Two owls awaited in my room. Mercury hooted when I entered, and Mywany echoed him. I read Mercury's letter first.

_Draco,_

_I didn't feed your bird, as you requested. I'm not an idiot, you know._

_Secondly, you're a clever person (or so I thought). Use your own inventiveness to find this cup. You have access to Malfoy attics which I don't, so make use of your advantage. However, if you do find it I don't advise touching it. It contains dark magic important to Lord Voldemort. That's all you need to know._

_Regarding the deal; yes, it starts now, but that does not give you an excuse to be arrested tomorrow. I have enough on my mind without needing to bother about you as well._

_Finally, Regulus is a good idea. I'll do my own research. As for your prize, well, your owl's still alive isn't it?_

_Potter_

Hilarious. Oh Potter, you wit.

Myfwany hooted impatiently, so I took her letter too.

_Draco,_

_As soon as you can open a Floo passage to Weasley Wizard Wheezes and place the cup gently in the flames. I will be waiting the other end. If this is the real thing you and your mother will be absolved of all future crimes and granted the complete protection of the Order of the Phoenix._

He was going to give me what I wanted. He was going to protect us, and not just him but his whole order too. I had won. My mother would be safe. A weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Relieved, I sent away both Mercury and Myfwany, and started a fire in my grate.

The flames were hot in the warm evening air.

I took the box containing the cup out of my underwear drawer.

Someone was coming noisily up the stairs.

I threw Floo powder on the flames. They blazed green.

Someone was coming close.

I hesitated guiltily. The last thing I needed was my father walking in on me like this.

No, _two _sets of footsteps.

Get rid of the evidence Draco.

"Weasley Wizard Wheezes." The pathway beckoned.

Place the box in the flames.

My door burst open.

I spun around guiltily.

Lord Voldemort.

_NO!!!_

Lord Voldemort, furious.

Lord Voldemort with his wand pointing at me.

_RUN!_

"Draco…" His voice was terrible.

_Into the fire._

I leapt into the green flames and the world spun.

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_AAAAAND hit the review button._


	7. Words

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Summary: Draco leaps blindly into the fire in an attempt to escape the Dark Lord. What will be waiting for him on the other side?

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters; they belong to J. K. Rowling. Sigh.

A/N – Hmmm. Ok, the reviews are telling me that if I leave a cliff-hanger I should really be prepared to update soon. So here it is. I hope you lot are grateful – I could have been revising for my assessments, but instead I wrote this! Anyways, it's quite short because I really need to go and do my Latin (sigh). More updates soon. Fill in the time by reviewing. Also, anyone got any questions for me?

* * *

Words

I landed less gracefully than I usually do, tumbling out of the fireplace, the box with the cup in it flying out of my grasp. My head still spun, and I caught only glimpses of legs around me. Disjointed voices echoed above me.

"… doing here?"

"Harry, why…" I coughed soot out of my mouth and frantically yelled at them.

"The fire! Throw water on the fire!" Behind me the flames still glowed green as the passageway remained open between Malfoy Manor and this shop. Was it just my imagination, or was a figure appearing in the flames? Terror gripped me, and I struggled desperately to stand, to find my wand, anything.

"_Aquamenti_!" A mighty hissing sound came from the fireplace as the flames were doused, and the acrid smell of wet, charred wood filled my nostrils. Slowly I stood up, my wand in my hand, eyes scanning the room. Apart from me there were the Weasley twins, looking as mangy as ever, their wands pointing at me, and Potter, who was poking in the wet fireplace with his wand tip. He stood up slowly, taking his time, and stretched the stiffness out of his knees.

"Who was following you, Draco?"

"Voldemort," I hissed. I'd expected the twins to recoil at the name, but they stood their ground (although one twitched slightly). Potter frowned.

"Explain," he said simply. I wondered if he'd picked the habit up from Dumbledore, but the silences he left to be filled yawned between us and caused words to fall out of my mouth.

"I'd started the fire, and I heard footsteps and my door burst open, and he was there, and I was scared, so I leapt into the fire."

"And You-Know-Who just let you escape?" one of the twins snorted.

"I think someone's telling lies," the other hissed. I'd never noticed before how hostile they could be.

"It's true," I snarled. "It's true."

I realised that I was shaking. I'd only had to see the Dark Lord for a second to know he knew. How much? It didn't matter. Even a fraction of what I'd done was enough to get me killed. My father… left behind, with an angry Dark Lord. What would happen to him? My stomach clenched unpleasantly. What was happening to him now, this very minute? Because of me. Because I was such a fool. Because I am such a fool, and the very reason Father could be in danger was in front of me, stretching indolently, in a black t-shirt and jeans. Potter yawned.

"I believe him," he said simply. "Fred, George, please lower your wands. Draco, do the same."

"I don't take orders from you," I spat. Potter sighed.

"Draco, this time I'm in charge. Please be sensible; surely you can see that we can not have a civilised conversation at wand-point."

"My father," I whispered, lowering the wand. Potter sighed again, and ran his right hand through his already ruffled hair.

"If Voldemort's with him Draco, then there's nothing we can do. Your father's a high ranking Deatheater. Voldemort's not going to kill him."

"You're sure?"

"Trust me, Draco. And if, by some terrible chance, your father does die, then I'll be the first to know." I met his serious eyes and my stomach flipped. Who was this terrible boy? That side I'd seen of him before, the side that threw me back and made me bleed and terrified me beyond measure, was taking over. He was giving orders, and others were following them. The twins had lowered their wands.

"You have the cup?" he asked. A sick feeling spread through me. Down to business already. He didn't care about my family, and I had been a fool to believe he cared at all about me either.

"I dropped it when I landed." I scanned the empty shop (the sign on the door was reversed to 'Closed' and spotted the box near a display of hats in various colours. I went straight for it, picking it up gingerly.

"It's in there?" one of the twins asked. I nodded. Potter stretched out his left hand, but I hugged the box close.

"Remember our deal, Potter. Asylum for me and my mother."

"If this is the right thing then you will have what I promised you," he said curtly. If our deal was news to the twins they didn't show it. Gingerly I handed the box to him. As he took it carefully in both hands, I ran my eyes over his left wrist and saw a grey sweatband covering where the Dark Mark should be. He followed my gaze and his eyes flashed a warning. Our little secret, eh Potter? It can't be good publicity for the mighty Chosen One to carry the brand of his enemy.

As he eased the box open my thoughts turned to my mother. Thank God she wasn't in the house. Would she be safe with Aunt Bellatrix? Probably not, I decided. I had to get her away and join her as soon as possible. We'd find somewhere safe and perform the Fidelius charm instantly. We'd hide. I'd already spent all summer hiding and I was sick of it. But until Lord Voldemort was gone it would not be safe for me to walk around now. Voldemort rarely forgives and never forgets. That fury I had seen in his eyes was terrifying, and it would not leave him for a long time. Lord Voldemort is an evil, vengeful creature. Unable to reach me, he might take out his rage and frustration on her. He could hurt her, and I could do nothing to stop him.

I turned my attention back to Potter as he gently reached into the open box and rested his fingertips on the surface of the cup. Impatience rose in me. Come on!

"You promised sanctuary for my mother," I said, fighting to control the urge to yell. "She could be in danger. I need your help rescuing her." He didn't reply, but lifted the cup and weighed it thoughtfully in the palm of his hand, then placed it back in the box.

"It's genuine," he said to the twins, handing the box to one of them. The way Weasley held it nervously made me wonder what the hell it was. Perhaps it was cursed. Potter turned to me. "Where is your mother, Draco?"

"Erebos," I replied. "My Aunt's house." He shrugged.

"Then what would you have me do, Draco? I can hardly pay a social visit to your aunt Bellatrix." My rage and frustration exploded out of me.

"Then your words are empty! I was right – you can't protect me! And I was foolish ever to believe you could!" He raised his left hand.

"Draco, I promised to protect her, yes."

"Well you're a liar then! Liar! She needs your help and you won't…"

"I never said I won't," Potter said softly. "Draco, you know your aunt better than me. How am I to extract your mother from her house?" I slumped, righteous anger leaving me in favour of exhaustion. Fatigue marshalled its troops and marched through my veins.

"I don't know." Harry glanced at the twins.

"Fred, can you drop that thing off to my house, in my room." Twin Number One nodded and apparated away, clutching the box.

"Harry, I'm not leaving you alone with him," Twin Number Two said. Potter waved his hand impatiently.

"I'll be fine, George. Can you see who's in the house and tell them that we need a way of getting Narcissa Malfoy out of Erebos, please?" Twin Number Two shrugged angrily and apparated away too. We were alone.

I lifted my head as he slumped against the counter, the strange lethargy taking hold of me. A minute ago I'd wanted action, now I just wanted to sit here.

"You look ill, Potter."

"Hardly surprising considering it has only been four days," he acknowledged. He smiled tiredly, the circles under his eyes dark. "You don't appear to be in the peak of health yourself, Draco."

"Don't do that," I snapped, annoyed.

"Do what?" he sounded amused.

"Don't call me 'Draco'. Like you're my friend or something. You're not. I hate you. The only relationship between us is a business one. How dare you call me my name when all I am to you is a Malfoy? What gives you the right?" He shook his head.

"Some might say having you save my life does."

"Well it doesn't," I replied shortly. He inclined his head my way.

"As you wish, Malfoy." I put my own head in my hands, tired beyond measure, drained by the argument.

"Your wrist?"

"No one else knows. The situation will stay that way." The coldness of his voice surprised me. This boy had had far too much contact with Lord Voldemort. When he threatened me the tone was horribly familiar.

"Understandable."

I wished I was alone. He was just standing there, watching me, so I slid my back down the wall and sat on the floor, with my elbows on my knees. I had known my lies would catch up with me, but the speed of it surprised me. Had one of the House Elves talked? Had Aunt Bellatrix seen the truth and told the Dark Lord? Had Voldemort simply guessed? Had someone leaked to him that Potter was still alive?

"How?" I whispered to myself.

"Here." Potter's reply caught me off guard. I glanced up and was shocked at the degree of anger in his face. With his eyes narrowed like that, one could almost see the gleam of red. He lifted a newspaper off the countertop and threw it to me. I caught it and recognised it; The Daily Prophet. My family had cancelled our subscription out of disgust when all it printed was spite, hatred and misled anger next to our names. The date at the top told me this was today's edition. The main photograph was a new one of Potter, taken on a crowded street. As I watched he walked hurriedly, head bowed, face averted from the camera. But it was the headline that triggered instant alerts, and I read on, horrified.

_HE'S DONE IT AGAIN!!_

_Harry Potter, the Chosen One, has survived yet another attack on his life by You-Know-Who, Cleopatra Fama reveals. Potter, now seventeen, was completing unknown business in Wiltshire when he was surprised by several Deatheaters and You-Know-Who himself! He was taken to the nearby residence of a certain Deatheater, (sources lead us to believe that this was none other than Lucius Malfoy who escaped from Azkaban prison a month ago) where it is thought that he was tortured for a period of time. Although Harry Potter is unwilling to talk about his experience and the details of his escape, Cleopatra Fama can confidently inform you that he was aided by a turncoat Deatheater. Speculations on the name of this Deatheater include the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange and also Harry Potter's peer, the recently disgraced Draco Malfoy. A source close to him reveals that Harry Potter is 'tired and physically drained, but expecting to make a full recovery'. Harry Potter has refused all requests for a recent interview._

_For previous interviews with Harry Potter see page 3_

The paper slipped from my fingers. In print. My name. The black and white type damning me. For all the world to see. And this article was not just guesswork. It was far too accurate. Someone knew about Potter's little adventure at Malfoy Manor. That someone had nearly got me killed by mouthing off. I stood up, angry.

"You idiot! What, did you have to brag about your great escape?"

"I told only two people, both of whom I trusted," Potter replied, and I could see the fury blazing in his eyes. Ah, I'd wondered why there was no sign of his extra appendages; Granger and Wealey. R.

"Well one of them obviously had a little word with Ms. Cleopatra Fama," I snarled harshly. For just a second his mask slipped and I saw the pain of the betrayed in his eyes. "And because of their loose tongue I nearly died and my mother is in danger," I added, in an attempt to build on his guilt. He hung his head, looking iller than ever.

"I know, Draco. I know."

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_Feel the pain!!! Now review!_


	8. Helplessness

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Summary: Harry and his friends are trying desperately to rescue Mrs Malfoy, but they encounter some unexpected problems.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters; they belong to J. K. Rowling. Sigh. But I do own this plot.

A/N – Yay! I finally remembered to update. I'm completely snowed under by a hellish workload at the moment, so this is quite an achievement. Oh, and btw, the theory of people's auras is believed by some people. One of my friends sees a kind of psychic for her problems and he told her about it.

Please review. It brings me joy. Also, anyone got any questions for me?

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Helplessness

The fire flared up green and I nearly had a heart attack. Surely this was the Dark Lord, come to drag me away! My hand flew to my wand, although what good it would do me against him, I didn't know. And then… relief. Weasley. R stepped out of the flames. He smirked when he saw me with my wand raised.

"Jumpy, aren't you Draco?" I lowered the wand and allowed my contempt to show.

"Call me by my name again and you will regret it, Weaselby." He laughed mockingly, eyes challenging, hands on hips. A stance that should have looked cool, but just didn't when combined with the utter hopelessness of Weasleydom. A red-haired man and a red-haired woman should NOT be allowed to breed. We just end up with hoards of the wretched things.

"Oh you're a big man, Draco. Scurrying to my brothers' shop, Draco. Hiding like the ferret you are. What are you going to do, _Draco_?" Every time he repeated my name the fury rose in me. I was so _sick_ of being jerked around! My wand shook in my hand as the anger built up. I wanted to inflict pain. I wanted to _hurt _someone and for once feel in control!

"_Orosangues_!"

He didn't have time to block; the curse picked him up and threw him back against a wall, eyes stunned. He coughed and blood spayed from his mouth, splattering down his front.

"MALFOY!" Potter's shout made me freeze like a guilty child. He had his wand out, pointing it at me. "Put your wand down, now." I shrugged still furious, still raging inside. A fight? Bring it on.

"So, it's fine for you to hurt me? But not for me to hurt your friends? Even traitors like that?" I pointed the hand not holding the wand at Weasley who was scrabbling frantically at his throat.

"Drop your wand, Draco." Potter's tone was ice. My cheeks burned with anger. I was not to be ordered around!

"So concerned for our friends, _Harry!_" Result! He twitched when I said his name. Weasley coughed blood and tried to speak, but only managed a gurgle. I laughed. It was so amusing! "Surely your efforts would be better employed in rescuing Weasleby from his plight, Potter?" He hesitated and I smiled, knowing that it would infuriate him. "But do you really care about traitors such as him?" An indignant gurgle. Potter didn't move, his eyes wonderfully shocked. And then the slow burn returned. The thinly veiled hatred. Hell, I'd missed it. This was where I wanted us to be. I took a step closer and licked my lips slightly. "Perhaps you need some new friends."

"_Expelliarmus_!!" The long overdue spell hurled me onto my back, my wand flying from my grasp. Potter stood over me, panting, and I was afraid. Yes, I was afraid. But I couldn't show that, so I raised my eyebrows and blew him a kiss. His eyes were icy cold.

"Never, ever harm any of my friends again, Malfoy." I levered myself up onto my elbows.

"And you'll do what? Send me to Azkaban? I brought you the cup!" He leaned down and unconsciously I shrunk back.

"Don't tempt me, Malfoy. Do not tempt me."

He turned his back on me stalked over to Weasley, who now resembled a very ill vampire. Blood still ran from his mouth. I was not worried for his safety; the blood was magically created and he was not injured. Pity really. Whilst Potter fixed him up I searched for my wand. It had rolled under a display case of lolly pops, and I stretched for it. It had been gratifying, seeing the hatred in Potter's eyes. He had promised to protect me, and I would see that he upheld his vow, no matter how much he came to regret it. I had no intention of making his life any easier. At least, after my mother was safe. A horrible sick feeling slunk into my stomach. I'd been so caught up in my emotions that I'd forgotten about her! What if the delay I had caused hurt her? What if they were too late?

I stood up shakily, and saw that Weasley was no longer regurgitating blood. He spoke and I pricked up my ears.

"What the hell is that git doing here, Harry?"

"He stays with me until I say otherwise," Potter replied, skirting the question. Sniff sniff, do I detect a lack of trust in the air? Weaselby certainly did, because he bridled right on cue.

"Harry, what's wrong with you? You're acting like you're elite all of a sudden, and we're your, your minions. To be ordered around. My brothers, and Hermione, and my parents. And I don't like it." Potter's stance spoke volumes – arms defensively crossed, body tense, poised for… what? Fight? Or flight from a potentially ugly situation? He certainly wasn't prepared to talk reasonably. I interrupted them.

"I hate to break up the lovers' quarrel, but may I remind you that _my mother_ is out there, and in danger?"

"Who cares about your mother? If I had her I'd be glad to be rid of her," Weasley snarled. I froze, blinking back tears of fury and anguish.

"Now who's acting like a git?" Potter's voice was measured, a neutral tone. And it hit Weasley like a whip.

"You're defending him?" he whined.

"He's worried about his mother," Potter replied. "You can not expect him to be civil."

"Yes, but he-"

"_He_ has a name and is standing right here," I growled. Potter glanced over at me, the message in his eyes clear. _Shut up now._ Grumpily I complied.

"Yes, but-" Weasley tried again. Potter touched his arm, and I noted the gesture. A touch more than friendly, perhaps? Please no. Come on Potter, I accredited you with better taste than that.

"Ron, I seriously do not have time for this. Trust me, ok? Now, what's happening?" Weasley sighed, brow furrowed, but acquiesced.

"You want the truth, mate? We can't get through to Erebos. Something's blocking the network. Lupin's working on it, but we don't have a clue what, or where it is. Moody, Tonks and Shacklebolt have apparated to the area, but that place has anti-apparation shields stretching for miles around it. It'll be over an hour before they arrive." Potter nodded gravely, showing no dismay. Ever the leader, never flummoxed. Find my mother, I prayed. I hate him, Lord I hate him, but let him find my mother. Please.

"Keep working on it," he said softly. "We'll come to the house in a minute."

"You're bringing him to your house?" Weasley spat. I yawned under his hostile glare and he rubbed his mouth subconsciously.

"I have to help him," Potter replied. "Ron, you know what he did for me. Voldemort wants him dead for it." Weasley muttered something like 'Good riddance to bad rubbish', but stepped back into the flames and vanished. Potter glanced over towards me.

"As you no doubt heard, Malfoy, we are experiencing difficulties. We will get to your mother as soon as possible-"

"That's not soon enough!" I interrupted. What would Aunt Bellatrix, faithful Bellatrix do to her?

"How am I to go any faster? Tell me, Draco. I'd very much like to know!"

"I told you, don't call me Draco!"

"Fine then, Malfoy. What do you want me to do?" I shook, waves of hopelessness rolling over me.

"I don't know. I want you to fix it. People say you are powerful." His voice was devoid of sympathy.

"People say many things. They say you are a murdering Deatheater." I nearly laughed. To think, that there were people afraid of me! And I had never felt more pathetic. He walked away from me, over to the fire, and pulled out a pouch of Floo powder. I glanced up.

"I've heard about where you live, Potter. I'll tell you now; I refuse to enter a muggle house." He shrugged.

"You've heard about the Dursleys? I don't live there any more."

"Where do you live then?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. He smiled, the first smile I'd seen on him since before Dumbledore died, and his eyes danced as he came close. I tensed. Fight or flight, again. But he didn't do either. Instead he leaned in towards me and said very carefully, "I live at _12 Grimwauld Place._" I frowned.

"Am I supposed to know the address?"

"No." He was still close to me, so close I could feel his presence. A friend of mine once told me the theory of auras. No, not a type of wizard hunter, but a person's aura. Apparently the molecules you can see of a person, their _figure_, are only one of many layers of molecules. The rest are moving too fast to be seen, but radiate from around a person's centre of gravity. Thus people can sense each other's anger, through subconsciously feeling fluctuations in their auras. Thus you can recognise someone without seeing their face. I had laughed at the idea back then, but with Potter this close it felt like we were, in some way, touching. I didn't like it. I didn't like him being this close to me, and I stepped back subconsciously, scrabbling for my personal space. He smiled. "You see, Draco, 12 Grimwauld Place is _my_ house. It belongs to me. And incidentally, it is also the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix." I sneered.

"An extremely pathetic headquarters, Potter, if it doesn't even have a _Fidelius_ charm concealing it."

"Oh but it does." He cocked his head to the side. "You see, I am the new Keeper."

"You!" I snorted. "The one most likely of all to be personally tortured by the Dark Lord. _You_ carry the secret of the Order's whereabouts?"

"Exactly," he agreed. "The very last thing Lord Voldemort would expect. With any luck, should the occasion arise, he'll kill me before he thinks to ask. And now, Draco…" He gestured to the fire. I took a handful of Floo powder from the pouch he offered, and stepped towards the flames. The headquarters of the legendary Order of the Phoenix? Bring it on.

"12 Grimwauld Place!"

Vwoom! I emerged from the fireplace, head spinning. Too much Floo powder in too short a time can seriously disorientate you. It took me a second to get my bearings. I blinked, and rubbed my eyes. If it hadn't been for that clapped out old werewolf, Lupin, standing there looking even shabbier than usual, I could have sworn I'd come to the wrong place.

This was where Harry Potter lived?

_This_ was where Harry Potter lived?

The place bore a startling resemblance to Erebos. Same gloom, some atmosphere. The evening sunlight glowed brilliantly outside, but only a few tendrils of it filtered in through the clouded windows, framed by thick velvet curtains. The room wasn't dusty, as one might have expected; instead it smelled strongly of _Clean-away!_ fluid. Recently cleaned, then. The furniture gleamed resentfully, protesting at its forced polishing. The house's mood was almost palpable – it had been bullied back to life after many years of darkness, and it wasn't pleased about it.

Lupin walked forwards and steadied my elbow. I batted him away.

"I'm fine." A whoosh behind me, and Potter stepped out of the fireplace. I turned on him. "This is _your_ house?" My eyes travelled over the pictures on the wall, paintings of witches and wizards sneering with the assurance of authentic purebloods. He followed my gaze and grimaced.

"We've been trying to get those down for at least a year now. They're not the worst; be very quiet whenever we walk through the hallway or you'll see what I mean." Lupin stepped close to the fireplace, and Potter moved me away from it. "How's it coming?"

"Slow," the werewolf complained. "This block can't have been up for long; the Ministry would have noticed it." He frowned. "Or at least, they should have noticed it." Potter smiled tiredly.

"Just keep at it. And if you need anything, give me a yell. Or bully Kreacher into getting it." _Kreacher?_ The name was strangely familiar. I was sure I'd heard my parents say it at some point.

"Of course. Where are you going, Harry?"

"Getting Draco set up. He and his mother will be staying here; they'll need a room." I glanced around the room. This was where I'd be staying, then? And probably for a while too. Well, it could have been worse, I suppose. The house almost felt like home (or at least a danker version of).

As we crossed the room and passed out into the corridor I admired the doorknob. A bronze snake's head. The glittering rubies set as eyes were a nice touch. Whoever had furnished this house had had good taste, and in its heyday I could imagine it as a magnificent and imposing place. Poor house. It felt very unloved.

We climbed a flight of stairs, the ankle deep carpet swallowing our footsteps. As more of the house came into view my approval increased. Lots of pictures of whatever pureblood family had owned it, showing a true and applaudable pride in their pedigree and heritage. Pale, blank circles on the walls indicated were trophy shields had been taken down. I wondered what had been up there which had offended Potter's delicate sense of decorum. Unicorn horns? Hippogriff heads? Or, more likely, the trophies had in fact been shields of honour, bearing the heads of loyal House Elves. House Elves. A place like this should have a whole army of them, and yet there was no sign of them, or, more importantly, their work. A coat had been thrown casually across the banister. Even in a house with one Elf, deaf, blind and incontinent, it would have been carefully placed on a hook within seconds. I wondered how on earth Potter had acquired this house. When he said it was his, did he mean legally, as in he had bought it (it seemed unlikely) or had he merely taken over a house he had found abandoned?

We had reached a landing lit by candles in silver wall brackets (the silver bore that very-tarnished-until-a-recent-brutal-scrubbing look), and Potter turned left into a large room.

"This room connects with the room next to it." He indicated the door in the far wall. "There's a bathroom connected to that one. This is where you and your mother will be. We're short of space as it is, so be grateful I'm not putting you together." I glanced behind me, at the only other door on this level, opposite my room.

"Whose room is that?" He followed my gaze.

"That's my bedroom, Malfoy. I would not advice that you enter it." I didn't intend to. Knowing just how paranoid Potter must be now, it probably had more booby traps than a Tri-wizard Tournament maze.

"And you're all alone in there?" I asked, smirking.

"Absolutely," he replied coolly. "House rules apply to you too, Malfoy. No strange girls, no coming in after midnight, no drunken revelry and no sneaking into other people's bedrooms." I laughed.

"Yes, _Dad_. Poor Granger and Weasley. I can see why they loathe you at the moment." He didn't reply, but turned to leave. I grabbed his arm, meaning to say something about my mother, and he cried out in pain. "What? Oh…"

"Aaargh," he groaned, as blood leaked through the sweatband.

"You didn't fix it up, then," I said softly.

"I don't know how, and there's no one I can tell," he hissed through gritted teeth, clutching the wrist. An unfamiliar emotion flickered inside me. Pity? For him? Pity for a lonely boy in pain. I reached out and pushed the already soaked sweatband back. It was hard to see under the oozing blood, but I could make out the congealed mess of the scab, and the shadowy imprint of the Dark Mark underneath it. He breathed fast, whimpering slightly as I gently touched it. I pulled out my wand, still holding his wrist with my left hand.

"Here, Snape taught me how to do this after you hurt me."

"How to do what?"

"Just trust me." I leant down and stroked the cuts with my wand tip, and sang softly to them about the beauty of healing, and the joy of being whole and clean. He flinched each time my wand touched a cut, but the wrist jerks became fewer and fewer, until finally I straightened up, satisfied.

"Wash it off."

Together we walked through into my bathroom, where Potter ran a tap over his wrist. The blood rinsed off slowly, in thin watery tendrils, until all that was left was white skin and the Dark Mark, black and hideous. Potter flinched slightly as the brand came to light.

"It's not your fault," I said softly.

"I know that," he snapped, and I knew he was angry because I had seen him weak, and I had helped him, again, and that infuriated him. "Thank you for healing the cuts," he said grumpily.

"The next time you're foolish enough to hack open your arm I'll leave you with the consequences," I warned. He nodded, examining the scars that marred the skin. I slid my fingers over them and was horrified to feel how deep the trenches ran. And yet, the Dark Mark glowed there, malevolent and unbroken. I understood then. Even if Potter was to take a cheese-grater and destroy half his wrist, as soon as it was fixed the Mark would be there then, black and complete.

"Nothing can make it go away," Potter said miserably. "I've tried vanishing it, and cutting it out, and I've even tried exorcism spells on it, but it won't work." He staggered and I caught him.

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Tired," he said muzzily. He struggled to stand, grasping the basin to steady himself. Realisation hit me. It was only a few days since he had been extensively tortured. And what had he done in that time? He had nursed a deep and agonising secret, he had plotted with me, he had dealt with the pain of betrayal, he had planned, he had organised and he had led. If Dumbledore were still here to give orders, Potter would still be in his reserved bed in the hospital wing. As it was, he'd pushed himself and pushed himself. I snorted.

"You're an idiot. You know that, don't you?"

"I don't need sympathy!" he snapped.

"Good," I told him angrily. "Because I feel none for you." I turned and stalked out, without looking back.

Down the stairs, feet thudding on the oak beneath the thick carpet. Back to the room where Lupin knelt over the fireplace, crooning to it. My appearance startled him, and he banged his head on the top of the grating.

"Ouch! Oh Draco, it's you."

"How close are you to getting through?" I demanded.

"Well," he started, and then saw my look. "In all honesty Draco, I have no idea what's blocking the way. And unless I know there's nothing I can do." Fear gripped me. We would be too late!

"Maybe this fire's messed up," I suggested desperately. "Maybe we can try another fireplace." Lupin shook his head.

"No, it works fine otherwise. Draco, I'm really sorry. But Tonks," _Who?_ "Moody and Shacklebolt are all highly competent aurors, and they'll be arriving at Erebos any minute now."

"You sent a decrepit old auror and two idiots I don't even know about up against Lord Voldemort?" I screamed, approaching hysterics. "They'll be killed and my mother will be killed! And if that happens I _will_ kill you!"

"Draco, calm down," he said sternly. "We are doing everything we can. Tonks and Shacklebolt are both very well trained, and Moody is not as over the hill as you seem to believe."

"Well his mighty defence of himself at the beginning of our Fourth Year certainly inspires me," I yelled. "I mean, this guy can't even take care of a single crazy Deatheater, and Crouch was absolutely barmy, but, you know, he'll be able to take on Lord Voldemort single handed and be back in time for tea." I made a show of glancing at my watch. "Better hurry, Moody," I snarled bitterly. "You've only got half an hour until teatime is officially over."

"Draco," Lupin began hopelessly, but I'd had enough. I turned and ran out, tears running unchecked down my face. Self-loathing filled me. I was so _weak_! I couldn't say no to the Dark Lord, and I couldn't kill Dumbledore and I couldn't protect my mother, and I couldn't force things into going any faster. I wanted power, so desperately, I wanted the power to do what _I_ wanted. Was this how young Tom Riddle had felt in that orphanage? I wondered dimly. My father had left some newspaper clippings out one day, accidentally, and I had read about Voldemort's origins. Had he felt so wretchedly helpless? Was that what drove him to becoming feared by all?

Blindly I crashed down the stairs, and into the hallway. Through the veil of tears I saw a velvet curtain blow back, revealing a portrait on the wall. I had barely registered this when a screeching voice split my head in half.

"_Thieves! Vile Thieves! Taking my house! Ooooh! Filth! Filth befouling the house of my Fathers! Blood traitors! Murderers!" _

I clapped my hands over my ears, stunned, sinking down before the onslaught. I barely registered the thundering on the stairs, and then two people ran past me.

"Get the other curtain!" Lupin panted.

"Pull!" a female voice I barely recognised ordered.

"_Murderers! Murderers! My son was not even cold in the grave when you stole…" _There was the sound of heaving and grunting, and then merciful silence. I opened my eyes cautiously. In front of me, looking dishevelled, stood Lupin and a large woman I recognised as the mother of the Weasley brood. Her face creased with sympathy, and I knew the tears still glistened on my cheeks. I burned with humiliation.

"Draco? Are you all right?" She reached out her hand for me, but I hit it away.

"Leave me alone," I screamed. Anger and helplessness raged inside me, and the world blurred again as more tears sprung to my eyes. "Leave me alone. Don't touch me! I _hate_ you! I hate all of you!" She drew back from me, shocked, and I pushed past her, running to the door. It was locked by a series of elaborate bolts and I didn't have the mental capability required to open them. My fingers fumbled desperately at metal pins for a minute, then I screamed in anger and frustration and turned, running back up the stairs. I felt trapped, and I was behaving like a child, and knowing that only made me more furious. Weasley R. stood on the stairs, gaping at me, having obviously left his room when he heard the yelling. I pushed past him desperately, and he stumbled, his hands reaching for me, clawing at my wrist. I shook him off, and he tumbled down to the landing below with an angry yell.

I fled instinctively, up to the sanctity of the tiny bit here that was 'mine': my newly acquired room. Potter stood in the middle of it, confusion on his face as I burst in. He had frozen in the act of pulling the newly cleaned sweatband back onto his wrist. The sight of the Mark on his skin filled me with loathing.

"Get out!" I yelled. "This is my room, so get out!"

"Malfoy…" I swear the next person who tried to talk to me in that 'understanding' voice would not live to regret it.

"Get out! I hate you! Get out!" I grabbed his left wrist, ignoring the way he winced, and threw him at the doorway. He hesitated, and then walked out. Drawing my wand, I pointed it at the door and slammed it shut.

Oh God.

Forgive me Mother. I sobbed desperately, slumped against the door. Forgive me, Mother.

But I already know that it's too late.

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_Poor baby Draco! I'm so evil to him! Anyways, now that you've read it it's time to REVIEW! _


	9. Ruins

Title: Names

Authoress: Lady Domino

Summary: Harry and his friends are trying desperately to rescue Mrs Malfoy, but they encounter some unexpected problems.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters; they belong to J. K. Rowling. Sigh. But I do own this plot.

A/N – Chapter 9! Finally! What's more, I've finally planned how this is going to end! Oh yes, we have direction! And too many exclamation marks… It's 23:20, I'm tired, I've finally finished this. And it took me thirty attempts to upload it...grumble grumble

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Ruins

The Weasley girl knocked on my door half an hour later, bearing a steaming mug. Reluctantly I unlocked the door and admitted the arm which thrust the mug in my direction. I sensed that it had not been her idea to bring it, because her eyes dripped venom. We did not exchange a word as I glanced in the cup. _Tea?_ I was damn near suicidal and Potter sent me tea. I suppose I could only be grateful that tatty old Lupin hadn't come up bearing chocolate.

Surprisingly enough it calmed me down immensely, sitting there on my bed, door locked, window open, sipping the tea. I was exhausted from my tantrums (the word makes me cringe, but that's what they were) and breathing deeply, holding my breath as I took a mouthful of tea. My neck ached from tension, and I ran one hand over it, massaging it gently. I missed Misty. Stroking him usually relieved all my stress, although I doubted whether even he would be up to the challenge this time. Poor Misty. I wondered what had happened to him. Perhaps he had sensed the mood of the Manor and fled. Unlikely; in the evenings he came in, instead of going out. I could imagine him now, curled up peacefully in front of the drawing room fire (yes we have fires, even in summer. My father had flat out refused to install central heating), wondering why there was so much shouting upstairs, wondering where his master was. Sadness lanced through me. I would not see him again for a long time, and over this summer I had grown even closer to him. I felt like I was missing an arm, not having him there to stroke and fuss over, and I missed his insistent mew desperately.

_Focus on the cat, Draco. Forget everything else, just focus on the cat._

More time passed. I lay apathetically on my bed, physically drained. The cold dregs of the tea began to look appetising as the darkness outside grew more complete. My room faced onto a muggle street, and a streetlight cast its orange glow into my room. Through the half open door in the far wall I could see the room designated for my mother. I rolled over, turning my back on it, turning my back on accepting reality. I felt like I was stuck in limbo – suspended and safe, awaiting a blow that would never come as long as I willed it not to.

And then, like an echoing knell, another knock at my door. And I knew this wasn't about frivolous things like hot drinks. This was news. No, this was the truth. I rose slowly, for once unconcerned by my rumpled shirt, and eased the door open. Potter stood there, wearing a leather jacket. I raised an eyebrow involuntarily. Goodbye Wonder-boy, hello teen-rebel. He caught my glance and huffed.

"I was miserable, I saw it in a shop, I felt better." The look in his eyes made me stop asking questions. I walked back to the bed and sat on it, gesturing him in. Strangely enough, inside I felt a deep calm. The raging fear, the tides of uncertainty and the waves of aggression had drained away. Damn, I was even getting poetic. "Draco," Potter began nervously, and I knew that this was not how you started a conversation that was going to end with 'And your mother's fine, in fact she's downstairs'… He crossed his arms defensively. "There was a reason we couldn't get through to Erebos. And now that we've broken the Anti Apparating spells around the area, well, perhaps I'd better show you."

"Where's my mother?" I asked. He frowned.

"Draco, it would really be easier if you came and saw for yourself." I'd thought I was calm. I was wrong. Dread gripped me, icy fingers of fear sliding down my back. What was I going to see? A body? A Dark Mark emblazoned on the night sky? What was so terrible that words would not suffice?

Apprehensively I stood up.

"I will need help Apparating there. I've never been before except by Floo." He nodded.

"I'll give you my hand. Do you have a coat?" I shook my head, and realised suddenly how woeful my position was. I had only the clothes I stood in – a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans. Good grief! What if they started suggesting I borrow something from Weaselby? I made a firm resolution to kill myself should the occasion occur.

"Draco?" _Huh?_ "I asked if you needed a coat," he repeated. I glanced out the window and considered. Clear, unclouded skies, and there was already a slight chill in the air.

"Yes, fine," I said softly.

"Give me a second." He vanished into his room, and reappeared with a non-descript black coat. "I notice you're in something a bit more interesting," I snorted, pulling the garment on. He shrugged.

"You want leather, you buy your own." He reached out for my hand, and I held onto his fingers. "Ready?"

"Yes." _No._

"Hold on tight."

"I'm not a child, Potter." _But I want my mother._ We Apparated away together.

We arrived on a blasted heath, swathed in the darkness that only comes when you are miles away from muggle cities and their lights. As my eyes adjusted I realised it was not truly dark; a warm glow came from behind us, illuminating the Dartmoor landscape and the dense bracken. A rustling sound, and my heart skipped a beat as a pair of eyes caught the light and moved towards us, but it was just an inquisitive pony. I ignored it as it pushed through the deep bracken towards us, snuggled deeper into my coat against the chill in the air, and turned around. Behind us was a large bonfire crackling merrily. Two shapes sat around it.

"Hiya Harry," one said tiredly, and I realised it was a woman. "Back already?"

"Tonks," he replied, gripping my arm. "I've brought Draco." The other figure coughed into the fire.

"Brought the Deatheater's son have you? Well by all means, Potter, show him the damage he's done." I bristled, recognising the voice. Mad Eyes. I did not dignify his words with a reply, but instead looked past them. I knew where we were, and my eyes searched in the gloom for a pair of iron gates, set in high stone walls. There! I stepped towards them, dragging my arm out of Potter's grip. The name plate on the wall beside them glimmered in the firelight. I couldn't read the inscription, but I knew that it would tell me that these gates belonged to Erebos. Beyond the gates I could dimly make out a great drive, rolling past lawns, up to…

"That's not possible!" I exclaimed. Potter came and stood beside me.

"Draco, the reason we couldn't get through to Erebos was because… Erebos no longer exists." And he was right. Where once had stood an immense mansion, built on a scale that rivalled Malfoy Manor, with turrets and gables and multiple chimneys and Aunt Bellatrix's stables which housed her precious horses, there was now rubble. And not much rubble either, considering the size of the house that had been demolished. I trembled in shock.

"How is this possible? The house, the house was here!"

"What's the betting your Lord didn't take kindly to you doing a runner, and vented his rage on an innocent house?" Moody growled from behind me. "What, you thought he'd just be fine with you scurrying away?"

"Leave him alone. Draco couldn't possibly have predicted that this would happen," the woman called Tonks countered. I ignored them both, and ran to the gates, wrapping my arms around them. They were solid. They were real. But the house… the house was gone.

"We'll go through the wreckage in the morning," Potter said quietly.

"Searching for bodies, you mean," I replied. I laughed bitterly. "Well, I can tell you who you _won't_ find, no matter how much you may want to. My Aunt Bellatrix."

"You are mistaken if you believe Bellatrix means anything to me," Potter said coldly.

"Don't bother lying," I said tiredly. "You loathe her. You'd sell your soul for a chance to dance on her grave." He took my hand gently, and his fingers were cold.

"Draco? There's nothing here. Nothing until the morning comes. You need to sleep." I pulled away from him.

"I'll stay here." A snort behind me.

"You? The pampered prince? Sleeping rough?" Moody was seriously pissing me off now. I spun around and my voice rose.

"I said I will stay here tonight. I want to be here in case… in case…" _In case by some miracle she's still alive and she calls for me. _Potter nodded, his eyes gleaming in the firelight, his breath just beginning to mist.

"I'll stay with you."

"You don't need to," I protested.

"Harry, it could be dangerous if Voldemort returns," Tonks piped up.

"Why would he?" Potter asked. "He doesn't know we're here."

"He could guess." Moody held up his hand in the firelight and ticked points off on his fingers. "He could come back to survey his work, he could have placed spells on the area which alerted him the instant we came." He glanced at Harry, the flickering orange light reflecting grotesquely of his malformed face. "He could have a little look in your mind whilst you dream."

"Voldemort can no longer see in my mind," Potter replied in an icy tone. "I am an accomplished leglimans now, thanks to Lupin's help. We will sleep here tonight."

"You'll need guards," Tonks said quietly. "But if you insist, then I'll be happy to stay with you."

"I suppose I will too," Moody grumbled.

I conjured for myself a thick sleeping bag and a blanket to cover the ground beneath me, and Potter did the same. We lay down close enough together to speak, but far enough apart that I could not hear his breathing. I did not want to think what the continuance of that action of his had cost me.

"Is it true?" I asked quietly. "You are now a leglimans? Snape said you had no talent."

"Snape," he said bitterly. "Funnily enough I learnt far faster under a teacher who did not seize every opportunity to humiliate me." I probed his mind gently and was surprised to find iron hard defences. He had not been lying. "Don't do that," he hissed. I jerked guiltily.

"Do what, Potter?"

"Don't do what you were just trying," Potter replied. "Or I might return the favour." Immediately I threw up my defences to their maximum, and turned away from him. Eye contact makes Occulmency far easier.

My ears strained, listening for the thin wailing of my mother's voice. _Let me hear her_, I begged whoever was listening. _Let her be alive and let her call out to me. _There was no reply; just the sound of the fire spitting and crackling as more dry bracken was added to it. Eventually I dropped off into a fitful sleep, still wrapped in the dark coat he had lent me.

The morning dawned clear, with skies a light periwinkle blue and dotted with clouds. The sun had barely risen and started spreading its warming rays when I woke up. My back ached from the hard ground, and my neck was even stiffer than the evening before, but determination fired me up. I would find my mother today.

The woman named Tonks was sitting next to the glowing embers of the fire, wrapped in a thick blanket, her head nodding. I wondered why she had hair a lurid shade of magenta. Odd. On the other side of the fire Lupin curled up under another blanket, with a pillow under his head. I supposed that he and Mad Eyes had exchanged guard duty during the night. Only two guards. They couldn't have seriously believed that the Dark Lord was going to return. Potter lay asleep in his bag, a slightly worried expression on his face, head resting on his arm, still wearing the leather jacket. In the light I admired the quality of it, although it did surprise me that he had gone comfort shopping. Retail therapy; wasn't that a female thing? Still, the result was entirely to my liking, so obviously Potter's idols should be killed off more often.

I left him sleeping on, and walked up to the gates of Erebos. Seeing the destruction beyond them in the daylight took my breath away. Nothing had been left standing. The entire house had been levelled, and then the debris dumped in individual pieces. I could see splintered beams of timber, panels of fractured glass and bricks. So many bricks, covered in a mantle of dust. I pushed the gates, but they remained locked, still guarding the property, guarding that sad pile of rubble.

"All is dust," I whispered to them, feeling the bitter, bitter irony of the password my Aunt had set on them, and they swung open silently. I glanced back to check that the others slept on, then ran up the paved drive. The immaculate lawns and the clear skies mocked the mess that I drew up to. Close to, one could see remnants of furnishings; here a sofa poked out from under the bricks, there a ripped painting lay discarded. The pile was small compared to the mighty house that had stood here, but still it towered higher than I was tall. My stomach clenched. How was I ever going to find her in it? I couldn't summon her, not without the possibility of damaging her. I pulled out my wand and searched for a suitable spell. I could shrink the material, I supposed, but that would take a tedious long time. It would be impractical trying to move it piece by piece, and likewise impractical trying to sift through it. An idea popped into my head and I pointed my wand at the sofa.

"_Evanesco._" It vanished. Heartened I pointed again and again, at sheets of glass, at tattered curtains, at wooden beams. "_Evanesco. Evanesco._" It was desperately slow, but I was making a hole in the mountain. Determinedly I burrowed deeper in, always making sure that what I vanished couldn't possibly contain a body. "_Evanesco. Evanesco._"

"_Evanesco,_" a voice other than mine said, and I turned to see Potter standing there. He directed his next spell at a pipe. "_Evanesco._" I didn't acknowledge him beyond a brief glance where our eyes met, but continued my work.

By midday I had uncovered several dead House Elves (probably killed when the house was destroyed, judging by their crushed appearance), but no sign of my mother. I surveyed the chunk we had bitten out of the rubble in despair. Even with Potter's help, and the two aurors joining in later in the morning, we still had more than three qurters of the heap to go. _She could be dying. She could be suffocating, and I'll get there too late. _Potter wiped his brow and joined me in considering the fruit of our labours.

"At this rate we'll need a bloody army to get through it all," I complained bitterly. He started.

"Of course!" And vanished.

"Where have you gone?" I demanded of thin air. "What the hell are you doing?" Grumpily I conjured a bottle of water up and drank it all in one. My fourth that day. Shifting the debris rose clouds of dust, and it was thirsty work. My eyes were irritated; dry and scratchy, but I ignored that. I still couldn't believe that the Dark Lord had simply razed this house to the ground; and in such little time too! His power beggared belief.

Crack! Crack! Crack! I dropped the empty water bottle in surprise as wizards Apparated all around me. A bloody contingent of Weasleys! I counted six of them (including the two parents), as well as Mad Eyes, and Potter standing in the middle, looking so pleased with himself I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd started purring. He gestured expansively at the ruins.

"There's the house! Ladies and gentlemen, shall we?" And they went to it.

I'll say one thing for having hoards of children. They halved the time it took to clear the debris several times over. For them it became a sort of game – the twins were racing each other and seeing who could clear the biggest hole, Weasley R. was attacking the rubble like it had done him a personal grievance, the Weasley girl was amusing herself by clearing a spherical tunnel and burrowing deep inside the rubble, and the parents were joking whilst helping each other out. I wanted to Crucio every last one of them. I was terrified they'd miss her, or maybe accidentally harm her in their high spirits. Did they not realise what was at stake? My Mother. Helpless. Witless. Alive? All through the morning I had denied myself the answer to that question, but as the afternoon wore on I began to despair. We worked on into the evening, the others breaking off for a brief picnic dinner whilst I ploughed doggedly on, the cool air a blessed relief after the baking sun at midday. Between the eleven of us we had cleared the entire pile of rubble by the time the light began to fade. I was exhausted, having allowed myself barely five minutes rest every hour, and the truth was bitter to the taste. She was not here. No sign of her, dead or alive. No body. No sign of Aunt Bellatrix either. And then, just as the last few mounds of rubble were cleared, I heard a shout from Weasley R.'s direction.

"Bloody hell!" My heart missed a beat as I ran over to him, and the others joined me. My breath caught. A hand. A hand poking out of the heap. A _human_ hand. _No! NO!_

Gently they excavated the body, carefully vanishing the bricks one by one. He was so covered by dust that I could barely make out his features, but his figure told me he was a male, and I guessed it was Uncle Rudolphus. They splashed water on his face and confirmed his identity, and all I felt was relief. This was not the hour, not the dreaded hour when I was to find her. But still, a part of me died every minute I waited in apprehension. The not-knowing was killing me. Should I hope or should I grieve? Black despair wrapped me in its dark cloak. Uncle Rudolphus had gone to Azkaban for Voldemort. He was one of the Dark Lord's most trusted Deatheaters. If he had not escaped the storm of anger, then what hope was there for my poor confused mother? I turn and ran back down the driveway. We had finished, vanished the ruins of the entire house, and she was not there. _She is dead_, I told myself. _Accept it, Draco. She is dead. I_ couldn't. I couldn't believe it. A part of me kept hoping, kept torturing myself. _She is dead and it is your fault. No! Please no. Please, please no._ Behind me I heard the whoosh of flames, and I turned to see that they had piled the last few timbers together, and were burning Rudolphus' body on the makeshift pyre. An ignominious end for a faithful Deatheater. _I'm sorry Father. I know he was your friend. _I could hear Aunt Bellatrix's voice on the breeze if I strained my ears, or so I fancied. Her whisper caressed my ear. _'All is dust, Draco.'_ _Not my mother_, I pleaded with her phantom. _Not my mother._ She gave no reply.

Potter walked towards me, and I loathed him. I loathed him because he still stood and walked. I loathed him because he was strong and he could fight on when he had lost people his loved, whereas I felt like dying. I wanted to cry, and I hated him because if he saw me with tears in my eyes it would only make me cry harder at the humiliation. And I hated him as he opened his mouth, because what good would his platitudes and mewlings be? Would they bring her back? Would they make it 'all right'? But what he said surprised me.

"It's up to you where you go now, Draco. But a wise man once told me that it is not wise to dwell on 'what ifs'"

"Let me guess," I sneered. "Those pearls of wisdom came from St. Dumbledore." He didn't rise to my bait, but instead shrugged.

"It's your life, Draco. Do what you want with it." I looked into my future and a black abyss yawned before me. I didn't have a future! What could I do? Where could I go? Perhaps he sensed my feelings because he continued. "Personally I'm working on destroying Voldemort's hocruxes. If you want to join me…" He left the sentence hanging. I leapt at his words.

"Hocruxes? I've read about those. But…the Dark Lord has more than one?"

"Not for much longer, if I have any say in it," Potter replied, with a slightly smug smile. And gratitude filled me. Gratitude because I could just follow. No more decisions; someone else would lay the path and all I had to do was follow. Someone had taken the choice, someone else was planning this future, someone else saw the line. All I had to do was follow. I made the one decision needed of me.

"You'll be needing help on this quest of yours then." A statement, not a question. He frowned.

"I will?" I laughed, the Malfoy mocking tone ringing true.

"You, on your own, Potter? You couldn't open a locked door if you didn't have Granger at your side. You'll be needing someone with _brains_. Someone with _experience_."

"And you as well?" he teased. I actually managed a smile.

* * *

_So… Did you see that coming? Hehe. Don't forget to leave me a review._


	10. Reality

_Disclaimer: Once upon a time Miss J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Then I wrote Names. Guess which one belongs to who. _

_A/N – this chapter is dedicated to two friends of mine. One of them has just found her motivation for life and I'm so proud of her. The other's feeling kind of sad right now, so I'm hoping this will make her smile. You guys know who you are. _

_And a big hug to all my regular reviewers, and more hugs to all you people who are reviewing for the first time. You make me smile.__

* * *

_

Reality

"This is a Horcrux, then?" I asked.

"It is indeed," Potter confirmed. The goblet lay in its open box, the dim morning sunlight which filtered in through the grimy windows reflecting softly off it. The embossed badger was a true work of art; delicate and lifelike, the lines still as clear as they must have been the day they were made. The cup didn't look old; the gold was polished and gleaming; the handles proud and dainty, the silk lining of the box it nestled in still soft and shimmering. It looked new. In the half-light it looked almost alive.

"Can I touch it?" I asked. He nodded.

"You probably won't notice anything. At least, when I held the diary I didn't feel that it belonged to him, and I'm usually pretty sensitive about that sort of thing." I reached into the box and tentatively hooked my index finger through one of the handles. It lifted easily out of the silk and hung there, swinging slightly, deceptively light. _This holds a part of the Dark Lord's soul?_ I wondered. A seventh, Potter had told me, but the whole process with which the Dark Lord had split his soul (as explained to me by an irate Granger) left so many questions. He had made seven Horcruxes. Seven! But the first one…had that contained a half of his entire soul, and then the second one a half of the remaining soul and so on? Or had he, each time, carefully siphoned off a seventh of his soul into the Horcruxes? It was a worthwhile question, because if some Horcruxes contained more soul than others then one should prioritise their destruction, but if each was equal then it would not matter what order they were destroyed in. Already over the past few days I had been thinking tactics, musing to myself in my room, zoning out at mealtimes. I had a purpose now, and that gave me no time for petty social formalities like conversation. Unsurprisingly, I was not the most popular house guest in the Order of The Phoenix, and only Potter really bothered to talk to me for more than to ask me to pass the marmalade.

I turned the cup slowly in my fingers, running my eyes over the unblemished surface. What had I expected? To be able to sense his presence? Yes, privately, I had expected the cup to be warm or feel evil or something like that. Something to give me a sign that I had at least achieved something in the fiasco that had left me homeless and motherless.

"This could just be any cup," I murmured.

"It's the real thing," Potter confirmed. He took it from me and turned it upside down. There on the base, neatly engraved, were the initials _H.H._ "It belonged to Helga Hufflepuff," he continued.

"Seriously?" I asked, breathless. _And we have to destroy it?_ I took it gently from him, cradling it in my hand. "This is priceless. A piece of Hogwarts history. A piece of magical history. It connects us to our past. We… we can't destroy it!" Potter cocked his head. "What?" I demanded, seeing his gaze. He smiled sadly.

"That look in your eyes, Draco. I've seen it before." He retrieved the cup from my grasp and replaced it in its box. "What use are the trinkets of yesterday compared to the lives of tomorrow?" _He didn't understand! _This was our heritage, and he didn't understand. But I needed him to trust me, so I did not press my point.

"So how do you destroy it?" I asked.

"We don't know," a voice behind me answered. I turned to see Granger standing in the door way. Her eyes looked slightly puffy, as if she had been crying, and her face was set into a rigid, expressionless mask , but her voice was steady. "We don't know how to destroy it. And without access to a library it's not clear how we're going to find out."

"What are you talking about?" I snorted. "Why don't you just go to Slaythen's Library?" Her face lit up like a beacon.

"You've been there?" she whispered.

"What's Slaythen's Library?" Potter asked. I extended my hands to the heavens in mock horror.

"Will no one save me from the unworthy and the ignorant?"

"Slaythen's Library is the wizard's library up in London," Granger breathed, enraptured, the sulky expression gone from her mouth. What's that phrase again? Simple minds, simple pleasures. She was absolutely transported with delight. "It's the largest collection of magical books in one place. I've never been there." She frowned. "It's really prejudiced though. You can only get an account and borrow books if one of your parents is a witch or wizard. The books aren't allowed into muggle houses."

"Anti-mudblood discrimination!" I gasped. "Simply shocking!" Potter shot me a warning glance.

"Can we go there, Harry?" Granger asked. "There's bound to be something on Horcruxes."

Potter placed the lid on the Horcrux's box, his brow wrinkled in a 'thoughtful' expression.

"If we go Draco will have to wear a disguise; he's wanted by the law."

"I was promised protection, you know," I muttered bitterly.

"I'm getting around to it," Potter snapped. "It's not easy, you know. The Ministry currently loathes me. They had an article a week ago on how I was a dangerous vigilante."

"I missed that one," I sighed. "A pity. I could have used a laugh."

"If Ron doesn't want to come..." Potter began.

"He won't," Granger interrupted. I took a step back.

"I can see where you're going, and the answer is no. No. NO! I refuse to polyjuice myself into a red headed rodent. I'll take my chances with the dementors."

"That won't be necessary," Potter soothed. "If you object so much, we'll just ask Fred and George to work their magic, and when they're done your own mother won't recognise you."

Half an hour later and she wouldn't have, even on one of her good days. My light brown hair curled softly around my head, my eyes were a gentle shade of blue and my left cheek was marred by a thin scar running down from my nose.

"I think the scar's a bit much," I complained. Twin 1. clipped me around the ear.

"Stop whining, Draco, or I'll give you a matching one on the other cheek." I rubbed my head resentfully. Malfoys are not used to being disciplined by lowlife.

"Besides," Twin 2. chimed in, "you need the scar otherwise you're just too much of a pretty boy." He caught a handful of my brown locks. "If people see you with Harry it's going to reflect badly on him."

"You didn't have to make me so damn girly," I grouched. They exchanged amused glances, and I wanted to hit them both.

"Well, Draco," Twin 1. began.

"We used our most masculine disguise sweets," Twin 2. said, waving the wrappers under my nose (I felt sick after eating four of the wretched confections in rapid succession).

"But they just weren't enough to combat your nature," Twin 1. finished.

"Oh shut up," I growled, lurching out of my make-up chair (try being five inches shorter than usual. You'd lurch too) and tripping over the hem of my trousers, now far too long. "Oh bugger."

The three of us apparated to Slaythen's Library together (that's Potter, Granger and me wearing a pair of Potter's trousers because he's such a shorty. Kill me now, please). Slaythen's Library is in the centre of London, near the theatre district. An uninviting big grey building permanently under scaffolding, it loomed threateningly. I led them through the doorway (which appears to be boarded up to the muggle eye) and we were transported into the library. Beside me Granger gasped in shock. The vaulted ceiling arched high above us, lavishly decorated with frescos depicting scenes from our history. Egyptian shamans tamed the crocodiles of the Nile above our heads, whilst priestesses danced in white robes, wearing masks of gold. But the truly spectacular feature of the library was its size. Think Westminster Abbey. Think bigger. You'd be close to the size of Slaythen's. Over a thousand book cases, in one single room. They'd had to install silencing spells everywhere, otherwise the slightest whisper would echo around for hours.

I trotted over to the Reception desk (at my current height a trot was necessary to get up any speed) and requested a leprechaun guide to help us. Leprechauns stand at about four foot, so I felt more comfortable about my height when compared with the line of them. The ones in Slaythen's had eschewed the colour green (the dress code for Slaythen's uniforms is a blue and white striped surcoat) and beards (all Slaythen's staff are clean-shaven), but still retained their mops of carrot hair. It was disconcertingly like viewing a whole row of mini Weasleys.

When I returned, with the emphatically non-Irish Herman in tow ('Not all leprechauns are Irish, son. Very few people know about us London leprechauns, but we've been here since the Great Plague') I found that Potter and Granger were still standing their with the mouths open in the foyer. I grabbed their hands, breaking the spell.

"Could you two act any more like a pair of muggles? It's just magic." I turned to Herman and smiled prettily (not hard when one appears to be more girl than boy). "My friend here would like to research Horcruxes."

"Ah wha-, yes," Potter said wittily. Herman stiffened.

"That's a restricted area, son. We don't just show anyone the Horcrux books." He smiled, revealing gold teeth (even non-Irish leprechauns are still addicted to the colour of gold). I pulled Potter forward a little and added a whine to my voice.

"Harry, Harry, tell him you have to read about them." The laprechaun's eyes widened, as his gaze flicked up to Potter's forehead.

"Harry Potter?" he asked. "Forgive me, I did not realise it was you." Funny, I realised. Even though the Ministry of Magic was trying (again) to blacken Potter's name, the general public still liked him.

"Yes, it's me," Potter admitted. He subconsciously flattened his fringe. "If you would be so kind as to allow me to read about Horcruxes I'd be most grateful. It's a current homework I have, for my Defence Against The Dark Arts studies." Deftly done, I noted. Politeness, a plea for assistance and a touch of flattery. Neat. Herman executed a small bow and led us through the main body of the library. Frustratingly, I found myself scurrying to keep up even with him, and wondered just how long I'd have to endure my revised height.

We passed the many aisles of bookshelves where witches and wizards browsed, the silencing spells swallowing our footsteps. I didn't recognise any of the people we saw, but several of them pointed at Potter and hissed his name (I caught the whispers just before the spells blanketed them). For once I felt sorry for him. Even better known than me, I wondered if he'd rather be in disguise as well.

Herman used a heavy key hanging off a ring on his belt to open a door into a claustrophobic anti-chamber about the size of a standard classroom at Hogwarts, whose walls were lined with shelves of books. In the centre of the room were a reading desk and several armchairs. The leprechaun bowed again.

"This is where we keep our books on the section of the Dark Arts relevant to the area you are interested in." He waved a hand, indicating that there were at least a thousand volumes. "If you could tell me in particular what you are looking for, I might be able to direct you to more relevant books." I glanced at Potter, who frowned. It was a gamble, letting the purpose of such a well-known and widely reported figure be known. I was certain he didn't wish to alert the Dark Lord to his activities. It was Granger who answered.

"Well, Harry, we've both researched how to make a Horcrux, so perhaps we should start with how to break one." Hemran frowned.

"A narrow and widely disputed topic," he said, pulling several volumes from lower shelves, and then nipping up a ladder to select a tatty tome from higher up. He set a pile of eight books down on the reading desk. "These ought to help you, although breaking Horcruxes has always been a vague practice, due to their rareness."

"Thanks." Granger's smile was fixed. Herman nodded.

"I'll have to lock you in, to protect the books. No eating or drinking in the library, no naked flames and no spells that may damage the books if you ever wish to return." He smiled, showing his teeth. "As for defacing the books, well, not even the Minister of Magic could save you from the Head Librarian's wrath." He left us.

"Finally!" I squeaked. Did I mention my voice was shrill? No? It was shrill. "Now let's read the books, find the answer and get me home before I die of shame at my own squashability."

"Shut up, you little twerp," Granger said grumpily, effectively squashing me. She reached for a book.

"Looks like someone's in a bad mood," I retaliated. "Well, before you inundate yourself in self-pity, have a thought for the person who's lost their mother and is bravely struggling on." She gave a strange half sob, and Potter stepped between us.

"Look, can we just find the way to break a Horcrux, please? No fighting."

"Why didn't Dumbledore tell you?" I asked. "Bit of an oversight on his part."

"Well, he didn't." Since no further answer was forthcoming, I selected two books and retired to my own corner to peruse them.

It was tiring and tedious. Wizards who write for posterity tend to forget little things like indexes, so I had to use the chapter titles to judge whether to read a section. To skim the entire volume of cramped, miniscule writing would have taken the whole day, and often I misread words and had to return to them. It was Granger who found what we were looking for. I guess all those years of living with books had given her some sort of affinity with them, or at least improved her reading speed dramatically, because she exclaimed loudly after only an hour or so.

"Gotcha!"

"Let me see," Potter said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Some people simply have no stamina. Granger passed it to him and his eyes flicked over the print. He smiled.

"That sounds doable. Draco." He passed me the book and I glowered.

"I've told you not to call me that." It was a large volume, ungainly in my smaller hands, and I balanced it on my knee with difficulty as I read.

"Potter, it says we have to _exorcise_ the Horcrux." He nodded. I read on. "No potions, no spells. Bloody hell, this is dangerous. You have to damage the Horcrux irrevocably, whilst at the same time pit yourself mentally against the soul inside and oust it." I felt ill. "We have to go mind to mind with one seventh of the Dark Lord." Potter shrugged.

"I managed it in our second year, and I didn't even know what I was doing. That diary had a part of sixteen year old Voldemort in it."

"And how old was he when he made the cup Horcrux?" I asked. "As a wizard grows older, so his power increases."

"He has a point, Harry," Granger said. "At sixteen, even brilliant Tom Riddle was far less powerful than Voldemort today or Voldemort when he made the cup Horcrux."

"Then we'll break it together," Potter said. "Or maybe I'll be able to do it alone; I'm stronger than when I was aged twelve, too." _You are_, I thought, remembering his mind walls. At twelve he hadn't even heard of Occlumency, and now he was obviously an accomplished legilimens.

"Whatever we decide, we should do it back at Grimwauld Place, where we won't be overheard," said Granger, showing a rare flash of sneakiness. Potter knocked on the door and Herman unlocked it a moment later and let us out. We thanked him profusely for his help (that is to say, Potter and Granger thanked him whilst I admired the ceiling) and left through the front door, before apparating back to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Evening was drawing on, and tantalising aromas wafted up from the kitchen. I had other things on my mind.

"Right, Twins. Make me me again." They put their hands on their hips together and considered me.

"Are you sure, Draco?"

"You look ever so nice like that, Draco."

"Besides, Draco, we're not sure…"

"That we remember how to do it, Draco."

"Stop saying my name and fix me now!" I snarled. They wore identical expressions of hurt.

"That's not very nice, Draco."

"If you want us to help you, Draco…"

"Then you should be more polite, Draco." I ground my teeth and swallowed the impulse to curse them both. Now was neither the time, nor the place.

"I would greatly appreciate if you two would be kind enough to undo the effects of your disguise magic on me." They grinned.

"There, Draco. All you had to do was ask." _Calm thoughts, calm thoughts! _

_

* * *

_

We resolved not to attempt to destroy the Horcrux until the next day, but the morning post at breakfast drove all thoughts of that clean out of my minds. It was Daddy Weasley who read his edition of the Daily Prophet first (about five different copies were delivered to 12 Grimwauld Place daily. This demonstrates the lack of co-ordination and organisation inherent of Weasleys), and who coughed hard into his mug of tea.

"Dad, what's wrong?" Weasley R. asked. Short of air, Daddy Weasley had turned a shade of mauve which clashed horrifically wit his hair.

"Page three," he spluttered. There was a rustling as everyone turned to page three. I glanced over Potter's shoulder, but grabbed the paper from his hand as soon as I had read the first words.

_GRIEF STRICKEN FORMER DEATHEATER JOINS HARRY POTTER_

_Draco Malfoy, whose Mother is missing, presumed dead, has recently allied himself with Harry Potter. Cleopatra Fama can reveal that Draco, who is said to be 'hiding his pain behind sarcasm and bitter banter', has infiltrated himself into Harry Potter's organisation, the legendary Order of the Phoenix, which Harry inherited from the recently murdered Albus Dumbledore. Lucius Malfoy, 41, Draco's father, has recently escaped from Azkaban, and Draco may be trading information on his whereabouts with Harry, in exchange for the protection of the Chosen One. Draco Malfoy is also said to be seeking revenge for the disappearance of his mother. Narcissa Malfoy, 35, went missing after an attack on her sister's house. Her sister, the infamous Deatheater Bellatrix Lestrange, 40, is missing as well, but the body of her brother-in-law, Rudolphus Lestrange, 41, was discovered in the rubble of the house._

_Harry Potter's well-wishers can only hope that he chooses his friendships carefully and will not be stung by this unlikely alliance. _

A strange hollow feeling settled on me. Seeing it set down in print made it strangely real. The façade I had built, the lies I had told myself; they were all shadows next to reality. Reality I had been fleeing from, reality I was too scared to face.

My Mother was missing.

My Father surely believed I had turned against him.

The Dark Lord had marked me down as a traitor, and would kill me the first chance he could get.

I was stuck with the guy least likely to get life insurance in the entire wizarding world.

My Mother was probably dead.

I stood up unsteadily and ran from the table, into the downstairs toilet. I ripped up the seat and vomited hard, my meagre breakfast burning my mouth and lungs and making me gasp.

The gasps turned to sobs.

Reality was that I wasn't as smart and witty as I liked to make out.

Reality was misery.

* * *

_Ok, this is a plug. Here we go. COME AND HAVE A LOOK AT THE ACCOUNT! I am referring to the account I share with XxmookinexX – the link is on my profile. It's got a Fruba fic and soon we will be posting an awesome Harry Potter one (in which Snape's eyebrows will indeed tango). _

_And in your excitement, don't forget to hit the review button…_


	11. Pain

_Disclaimer: Once upon a time Miss J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Then I wrote Names. Guess which one belongs to who._

_A/N – Hmm. An angsty chapter. Lots of emotions running riot, and we actually get a glimpse at Harry's (many) problems. Draco isn't the only one having a hard time of it, but in real life, in such a situation as post HBP, none of them are going to be particularly smiley. My first attempt at giving Ginny multiple lines!

* * *

_

Pain

I woke up in the middle of the night, the familiar leaden aches throbbing through my left wrist. I knew what it meant; the Dark Lord was summoning his Deatheaters to him. _Come, each and everyone one of you, or be declared a traitor_. I had disobeyed its command before, during my year at Hogwarts where Apparition was not possible, but this was the first time I was actively choosing not to return to my master. _No longer my master_, I reminded myself. I lay back miserably in the pillows, nursing the soreness, when a muffled groan reached me. Instantly I stiffened, pricking my ears in the semi-darkness. The orange street lamp outside my room cast a lurid glow across my bed as I scanned it. No one could be seen in my room other than me, but still I strained to catch the slightest sound, my own breath roaring in my ears, my heart pounding like a drum.

There! I heard it again. A muffled moan of agony. Slowly, silently, I slid out of the covers and lowered my bare feet onto the old carpet. I stood up carefully, lest the bed creak, and crept to the door. The carpet muffled my feet and I trod stealthily to further ensure that I was not heard. I grasped the cold door handle and slowly twisted it, and the door swung open silently. The house itself felt asleep as I padded out onto the landing. The pictures around me that had remained on the walls depicted slumbering witches and wizards, and the silence was deafening. I froze there for a whole minute, until I began to believe that I had imagined the whole thing. And then, another small sound, and I knew without a doubt that they were coming from the only other room on the same floor as mine. Harry Potter's room.

I hesitated. He had told me that the door was booby trapped, and besides, I was unwilling to walk in on something I'd rather not see, but the aching in my arm was maddening and I knew I'd not be getting back to sleep for a long time. In fact, the walk to the landing had woken me up fully, so I threw caution to the winds and stepped up to his door. Gripping the door knob, I turned it silently (this house had well oiled door knobs and hinges, which was a blessing) and slid the door open, tensed and ready for some attack. Nothing happened, so I swung it open further and paused for a second as my eyes adjusted to the gloom.

He lay on the bed, a dim shape twisted around with the sheets, and as I watched he writhed convulsively on his side, before rolling over. I reached for the light switch and flicked it on.

"Turn it off!" he begged instantly, panicked and blinded in the harsh glare. I didn't, but instead shut the door and crossed swiftly to the bed.

"What's wrong? Are you ill?" He certainly looked ill; drenched in sweat and pale, with tears rolling down his face and his jaw clenched shut.

"Not ill," he hissed. "It _hurts!_" He waved his left arm wildly and I grasped it just below the elbow, then breathed in sharply. The sweat band was off, showing the Dark Mark, standing out far bolder than I had ever seen it before. The flesh surrounding it was inflamed and red, whilst the skin had cracked along some of the lines of the Mark, and golden yellow liquid oozed through.

"Potter? What is this?"

"Nngh," he whimpered, and trembled, whipping the arm out of my grasp and cradling it.

I felt totally helpless. What to me was a bearable ache was to him utter torture. Had the Dark Lord foreseen this consequence of his burning the Mark on? No, he couldn't have; he hadn't expected Potter to live. But was he feeling it now? Was he laughing to himself as his enemy writhed in pain?

"Make it stop," Potter begged. I could see that it was only through supreme self-control that he stopped himself from crying out loudly. Ever the hero, hey Wonder Boy? "Please, Draco," he whispered. _No_, I corrected myself. He wasn't a hero at the moment. He was a teenager in total agony, seeking comfort from any quarter. I was wholly inadequate; he'd have been better off with Granger or his Weasley girlfriend, but I did the best I could. I cradled his head and shoulders, and held him as he shook and wept and retched dryly. I kept an eye on the door to check that no one came in, and ran my hand through his unruly hair. It seemed to calm him, so I supplemented it with whispering in his ear. I spoke to him about flying, about Quidditch, about sunshine and mistletoe and pretty girls. He even managed a wan smile when I told him that the first time I kissed a girl under mistletoe we both closed our eyes and as a consequence bumped heads.

Slowly the dull throbbing in my own wrist drained away, and I felt him calm down. Sporadically he still jerked, but the shudders became fewer and further between, and the tears dried on his cheeks. His shirt and the sheets were sweat-drenched, and my hand was slick from wiping over his forehead and through his hair. The famous scar blazed feverishly under my touch, and stood out vividly. But his Mark… My own was surrounded by slightly flushed skin, and blacker than usual. His was an inky stain of darkness, cracked and encrusted with the fluid that had oozed out. Around it the skin was a livid shade of red, and scratched from where he'd clawed at it in his distress.

When he lay still I left him and filled a basin with warm water in his bathroom. I brought it back, sat on the bed and balanced it on my knee. He was silent as I gently bathed the wrist, but flinched as my fingers brushed over his skin. I cleaned him up the best I could, and he didn't say a word throughout. When I released his arm he curled it in on his chest defensively, sitting up with the blankets twisted around his hips. I emptied the basin of the dirty water and refilled it, bringing a flannel with me. Gently I sponged down his drenched face and neck, and again he suffered it in silence. After emptying the basin a second time, I sat on the edge of the bed, at a loss as to what else to do. He hugged his knees up to his chest, looking incredibly small and vulnerable. He _was_ small, I noted. Slender arms and legs, and built all to a smaller scale than I was. If we were to stand side by side his hip would be a little way above my knee, his shoulders halfway up my chest, and my eyes easily able to see over the top of his head. Diminutive and delicate, and at the moment he looked on the verge of shattering. This was the mighty Chosen One, whom I had thrown my lot in with?

I shifted uneasily, then stood up abruptly.

"If you want me to leave, then I'll just go."

"No," he said instantly, and I heard the desperate note in his voice. He fought to control his tone. "No, I'd rather you stayed." I sat down again.

"Has this ever happened before, Po-Harry?" He shook his head.

"First time He's called them." His laugh was bitter. "As if I didn't have enough problems." I cast my mind around for something to say to break the silence that yawned between us.

"Can you get rid of it?"

"No, I've already told you, I can't. Believe me, I've tried." He lowered his chin onto his knees. "If I were to kill him; if he were to die… then I would have peace."

"A high price for peace," I said sympathetically. He closed his eyes tiredly.

"Sometimes, sometimes I fear I will go mad. Always locking my mind closed and fighting the pain and, and never trusting anyone."

"You can trust me," I murmured, desperately trying to find something reassuring to say. Again the bitter laugh.

"And what does that say, that I can only trust a man with the Dark Mark burned on his arm?"

"It says that we're in the same boat," I replied. He met my eyes, and I could see fatigue and the dregs of pain.

"No, Draco. You come close, but I'm afraid your galley is still a long way away from my wretched raft."

* * *

"Last night," she said, her voice faint through the wood. "Last night I couldn't sleep, so I had a walk around the house." I sidled closer to the door, and slid the Extendable Ears I'd found in through the keyhole. They were amazingly effective, so much so that I felt I was in the room with the two of them as they talked. "I walked around the house, Harry," she continued. "And do you know what I saw?" No answer. He must have shaken his head. "I saw Draco Malfoy going into your room," she told him. He laughed, that bitter laugh I was growing so familiar with. 

"Ginny, it's not what you think."

"Isn't it? He sneaks into your bedroom at night, and then you turn up in the morning looking absolutely exhausted. Are you going to try and tell me that you were asleep all night? That you didn't know you had a _Deatheater_ in your room?"

"Ginny, we just talked. We both have a lot of issues at the moment."

"But you could talk to me," she persisted, sounding hurt. "We never, never talk. I know you're trying to protect me, Harry, but I have a right to know what's upsetting you so much."_ They're going to break up now_, I suddenly thought with absolute clarity.

"You wouldn't understand," he said softly. "And, Ginny, I don't want to burden you with my problems."

"But you'll talk to him." There was a pause. "Well, if you'd rather talk to _him_ than me, then perhaps you'd rather kiss _him_ than me, and go out with _him_ rather than me."

Urgh. Outside the door I wrinkled my nose. No, thank you. Last night's talk had been a one off, when that increasingly familiar emotion, pity, had stirred me into action. As a rule I'd rather not spend any time alone with the creature called Harry Potter. I still would not forget that look in his eyes when he had hurt me in the bathroom at Hogwarts. Hatred. Anger. And whatever he said afterwards, I knew then that he _wanted_ to hurt me.

Inside the room Potter snorted.

"Don't be silly, Ginny. I'm not remotely interested in Draco Malfoy that way." _Not much of a reassurance_, I noted. He didn't tell her he loved her, or that he'd rather have her. She must have picked up on his chilliness, because her tone became firm and resolved.

"Harry, I've been thinking." _Now there was a one off_, I sniggered to myself. "I, I think we should have a break. Because, ever since the beginning of Summer, or really, ever since you disappeared and came back hurt, you've been so distant." She sounded tearful. "I don't know where I stand with you anymore. You hardly ever talk to Ron, or my parents. It's like you're drifting away from us, and it's all because of _him. _Draco bloody Malfoy." There was a long silence. _Oh come on Potter_, I prayed. _Say something gallant and noble. Otherwise we'll be deluged in tears. _

"Yeah, ok," he said. I nearly dropped my Extendable Ears in shock, and then trembled with amusement. '_Yeah, ok'??_ What a prat. What a prize prat. _She's never going to come back to you after that._

"You think it's best too?" she asked in a somewhat strangled voice.

"Yes," he answered. "You're right; I haven't been paying you the attention you deserve recently. It's great that you've put up with me for so long, but I can't keep asking you to try and keep this relationship going on your own." Another of those loud silences.

"What's happened to you, Harry?" she whispered, finally. "We used to be alive, you and I. You used to care. Don't you remember the common room after Quidditch, or, or those walks by the lake?" Her voice was breaking up. "You had so much emotion, I could b-barely match you, b-but I tried. We kissed under the stars that time we went out in your invisibility c-cloak. You said you loved me. Where have your emotions gone?"

"I don't know," he replied, and his tone was strangely detached. "You're right, Ginny. You deserve someone with more time and love for you."

"You're not supposed to say that!" she screamed, and I heard footsteps. Quick as a flash, I whipped the Extendable Ear out of the keyhole and dashed into the room across the landing (a bathroom with a cracked mirror which I utilised briefly to check my appearance). Half a second later and the door I had been listening at flew open. The Weasley girl stormed out of the room, tears streaming from her eyes. I waited until she'd gone, then left the bathroom and went to Potter.

He glanced up as I entered.

"You heard?"

"Parts of it," I admitted. "Messy break up." Potter rubbed his wrist subconsciously. Today's sweatband was black, with a cobalt blue dragon rearing on it.

"It should have happened long before now," he said.

"Last night…" I began.

"Last night never happened," Potter told me. "I don't care what lie you feed them, but the truth never happened." He looked absolutely exhausted, but his eyes blazed bright. "And Draco, if people do find out, then I'll know who to blame." Surprisingly, I was hurt.

"I wasn't intending to tell anyone," I said sharply.

"Good," he replied, still caressing his wrist. A dark fury sprung to those eyes. "I hate it!" he suddenly screamed, and, spinning, smashed his arm into the wall. Nervously I kicked the door shut behind me, to keep away prying eyes.

"Potter?"

"I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!" he raged. "I hate that he can just do whatever he wants and I hate that he can hurt me!" He shook, and his breathing grew increasingly ragged, as he stared at his wrist as if seeing it for the first time. "I hate that I couldn't stop Snape," he breathed, and his face twisted into blind anger. "_I hate being so damn helpless!_" His scream echoed my own, the words the same as I whispered at night into the pillow.

I didn't move towards him, because he'd have pushed me away. Instead I just stood there, whilst he lowered his head and fought to catch his breath.

"When he's dies, the pain will go," I said quietly.

"If," Potter corrected tiredly.

"When." I didn't stay to see his expression, but turned and walked out of the room.

* * *

"I'm moving out for a little while." The lunchtime babble hushed instantly after the Weasley girl's words. "I want to go and live with Fred and George in the rooms above their shop," she continued, a touch breathlessly. I glanced at Potter, who contemplated his crumble with an intensity I had hitherto not known he had. 

"But why?" Mummy Weasley asked. "Why would you want to leave here, Ginny?"

"Too many people are living in this house at the moment," she replied. On cue all the eyes of the diners swung onto me. I ignored them and studied my reflection in the blade of a clean knife. "I just think it would be better. I need space."

"But," Daddy Weasley began.

"I really have made up my mind about this, Mum, Dad," she said. "I'm leaving this afternoon."

"It's not safe," M. Weasley protested.

"If it's safe enough for Fred and George then it's safe enough for me," she said stubbornly. The argument went round and round for another half hour or so, with the Weasley parents trying desperately to persuade her to stay.

"You'll get in the way."

"Don't be silly, I'm not five."

"Fred and George can't afford the time and expense." I snorted at that. The Weasley twins were earning roughly ten times more than D. Weasley every year.

"It's dangerous. It's difficult. It's inconvenient." On and on they nagged, but she stayed resolute, until finally they gave in with feeble protesting.

As soon as the words, "Well, if you're really sure," were out of D. Weasley's mouth, Weasley R. leapt to his feet, his face the same colour as his hair.

"How is that fair? How is that fair? You always kick up such a fuss when I want to go out, but she wants to _move _out and you're letting her??"

"Ron, not now," D. Weasley warned. Potter sighed. He had been scraping around his bowl for the whole of the previous argument, but now he obviously decided that any more spoon action would remove the pattern, so instead he contented himself with pouring a glass of water and taking slow sips. I felt a strange solidarity with him. This wasn't our family, and their arguments were embarrassing to us both. In fact, this was as far from my family as possible. I had never truly, truly argued with my Father, until I got Misty and that was a one-off fury, in which he came damn close to cursing me. Apart from that we tended to regard each other with a sort of detachment. I towed the line and he didn't pry too much in my life. As M. Weasley opened her mouth to quarrel with Weasley R., I decided that I far preferred our way.

"Ron, you never tell us where you're going," she snapped. "You just leave and say 'I'm going out', and come back at all sorts of unearthly hours of the morning. For all I know you could be hanging out with Deatheaters."

"Well, thanks for the trust," he said sarcastically. "You know, you might just give me a little independence and confidence, but you keep me on such a damn short leash that I'm climbing walls." Across the table from me Lupin appeared to have gone to sleep. Unobtrusive as always, I had barely even registered that he was joining us this mealtime. Potter finished his water with a sigh, and poured himself another glass. The jug swung in his left hand, grazing the sweatband, and he winced to himself.

"Ron, these are dangerous times," D. Weasley began, but Weasley R. had had enough. He shoved his chair back, leapt to his feet and strode out of the room.

"Where are you going?" M. Weasley demanded.

"As always, I'm going out!" he yelled over his shoulder. A ghastly screeching came from the hallway.

_'Blood traitor filth, disturbing and desecrating the house of my ancestors!'_

"Shut up, you old bat!" he screamed. I heard the door slam, but the shrieking continued.

_'Dung, dung! Traitors, mudbloods, filth, filth!'_ Lupin opened his eyes and stood up with a sigh. He trotted out to the hallway, and a minute later blessed silence resumed. Quietly, Potter began clearing the table.

After lunch was cleared away, the Weasley girl stalked upstairs, resolutely ignoring the two of us. The sounds of hasty packing could be heard, if one placed one's head to the keyhole in her door (not that I ever would, you understand). Potter and I migrated by common consent to his bedroom. He sat on his bed and pulled open a drawer, then lifted the box with the Horcrux in it out. I considered his bed with a certain amount of suspicion. Teenage boys who were not brought up the Malfoy way are not known for their hygiene, and I had no idea when those sheets were last changed. Sized up in the glaring daylight streaming in through his windows, it looked somewhat unappetising. I compensated by finding a clean patch of floor (did I want to sit on the Chosen One's underwear? No I did not) and sitting cross legged there. Potter lifted out the cup, and held it in his hand.

"May I?" I asked. He passed it to me without a word and I cradled it, transfixed by the way the light played over its golden surface. A hooting broke my reverie, and I looked up to see an owl at the window.

"_Mercury_?" I couldn't believe it!

"Isn't that your owl?" Potter asked mistrustfully.

"My father's," I replied, oblivious to anything but the letter Mercury clutched. News from home! What would it say? My mother! The faint, suppressed hope in my heart rekindled. I dumped the Horcrux, ran to the window and relieved Mercury of the letter. He flapped to Potter's bed, hooting.

"A letter from your father?" Potter said faintly. I turned to him, and the smile died on my lips. His face showed only mistrust and suspicion. "So, Draco, how long have you been writing to him? Did you tell him about last night?"

"This is the first letter I have received," I said coldly.

"Well, you'd better read it," Potter snarled. "It might contain new instructions from your Lord, like how to kill me in my sleep."

"You're overreacting," I spat at him, angry and hurt. "It's just a letter from my father. I've no idea what it will say."

"Whatever," Potter replied. He drew his knees up to his chest. "Go to your room and read it, Draco. I don't care." I felt the walls rising between us, felt his mind retract behind mental defences of steel. The atmosphere in the room dropped several degrees, and I had to fight to keep my face straight and my tone level.

"Thank you for the dismissal, _Chosen One_." He flinched at the name which I had hurled like a curse, and I strode out.

In my room my fingers trembled with excitement as I broke the familiar Malfoy seal. Seeing the cat reminded me of Misty and I suddenly yearned to be in my room, in my house, with my cat. Strange; I had not felt homesick until now, but at that moment I missed my house and my family desperately.

The contents of the letter soon cured that feeling. Short, and to the point as always, my father had not wasted any words in telling me exactly what he thought of my defection. I read the letter three times, leaden misery coursing through me, then crossed the landing back to Potter's room. He was on the bed, lying on his back, eyes closed, but he opened them when I entered.

"Oh. It's you." I thrust the letter at his face.

"Here," I snarled. "Read it. Read it, and then tell me that I have betrayed you." Frowning, he took the parchment from my shaking fingers, and smoothed it on his knee. His eyes moved across the elegant script, and I could almost have followed his progress word for word in my mind. The letter's contents were burned in my heart, and short phrases kept floating back to me.

_It is purely through your foolishness that our family has lost some of its members. _

_Our name has become synonymous with dishonour._

_I am alive only as long as I can assist the Dark Lord in hunting for you._

The words spun round and round my head. _Dishonour. Shame. Fool. Murderer. _And then his final phrase.

_I hereby disinherit you, Draco Abraxos Malfoy. You are no longer my son or a Malfoy._

Laughter spilled from my lips, hysterical silly laughter. Potter looked up anxiously.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," I sang, silly and shaking. "I was terrified that he'd order me back to Malfoy Manor, but see, see! I'm never going home. Never, never!" I trembled with the uncontrolled laughter, whilst inside I wept.

I'm never going home.

* * *

_Hey guys! Well done for getting this far! _:P 

_Seriously, I swear I end every chapter on a majorly depressing note. I'll warn you now – 'Names' will have a sort of happy ending but it's going to be a great struggle for all the characters, and not all of them will make it._

_Please Review._


	12. Friends

_Disclaimer: Once upon a time Miss J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Then I wrote Names. Guess which one belongs to who.  
__The song words at the beginning belong to Snow Patrol._

_A/N – Oh my goodness!! The last lines made me want to laugh and cry writing them! Here you go then, a Christmas special… a chapter that doesn't end on major depression!! And I know I've been a bit behind with updates, but the workload has been hideous. Thank you so much to all my constant reviewers who have waited patiently for this, and for all you newbie reviewers too. Special thanks to Freja Lercke-Falkenborg, Shaitanah, Lady Crucio, Skullera, druplusspike, and Catchy Turn, who have stuck with me from the beginning. This one's for you guys._

_Oh, and by the way, Names will NOT be turning slashy. Several people have asked, so I thought I'd make it clear.

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_

Friends

_The weight of water, the way you told me to look past everything I had ever learned  
__The final word in the final seconds_

Why is it that bravery is often synonymous with stupidity? Why is it that someone who can stare the Dark Lord in the face and resist the urge to curl up into the foetal position can not comprehend the notion of risk? How, to put it bluntly, can someone who has survived as long as Potter has still be such a complete and utter idiot? Such questions ran through my mind as we tucked him into his bed the following morning. It had been Weasley R. who found him, sprawled across his floor, breathing shallowly and doing his damned best to impersonate a corpse. The entire Weasley family ran around like headless chickens searching for the intruder who had done this to him, whilst it was left to me to pick up the golden fragments lying beside him and work out just how much of a suicidal idiot he was.

I will say this very slowly. He. Broke. The. Horcrux. On his own. Have you ever wanted to jump up and down on someone's face and just scream 'Why, why, WHY are you so stupid??' That's how I felt. This is what pride does to you. It makes you think you can go one to one with one seventh of the Dark Lord's soul, _without even bothering to tell anyone that you may shortly be in need of life support._ He didn't bother waiting for us, oh no, because he's the mighty Chosen One and he doesn't need help when fighting with someone who's far more experienced than him (that fragment of Voldemort's soul was placed in the Horcrux when he was far older than Potter's measly seventeen years). And this sort of action is _applauded_?? Oh yes, it's brave and heroic and dashing. Never mind that Potter nearly killed himself (by all rights he should have been reduced to small, bitesize chunks), and that he caused his entire adopted family to go into spasms (Granger and the Weasley girl nearly drowned us in tears) and that, worst of all, he disturbed my tranquil morning's slumber. Instead of being slapped back into life or placed under a cold shower, as he deserved, he was lovingly tucked into bed, made comfortable with piles of pillows and cooed over. His hand was held by multiple females (even the Auror Tonks dropped in for a session) his brow mopped, his hair stroked. And through it all he was allowed to remain in blissful unconsciousness.

Since no one else in the house seemed to possess the presence of mind required, it fell to me to place all of the pieces of the broken Horcrux into a box, which I taped shut firmly with yards of Spellotape. It made me sad, holding the fragments, to think what had been lost. This cup was part of our history, part of Wizard history. That it should fall to the son of a mudblood to shatter this link to our past was just too cruel. Maybe I'd have felt more sympathy towards Potter, damaged by his fight with the sliver of the Dark Lord's soul, if he wasn't already drowning in it.

Much of the pity and compassion flew out of the window though, when Potter opened his eyes in the late afternoon. Daddy Weasley was absolutely furious. Having already had one child possessed by the Dark Lord, he wanted to know exactly what Potter would have done if Voldemort had triumphed in their battle and possessed him, before embarking on a mass killing spree. Mummy Weasley (tearfully) couldn't believe that Potter could do this to them, couldn't understand why he hadn't told them, hadn't waited for their help, hadn't entrusted it to the adults (who, of course, were all extremely experienced at breaking Horcruxes, my word, yes). Potter looked at them both greenly, then threw up heavily before passing out again.

But just because the Chosen One, Hero Supreme and Champion against the Dark was out of action didn't mean that life didn't go on. Weasley R. went out around midmorning, and, watching him go, I suddenly had a yearning for fresh air. I collected a coat from Potter's room, tucked my wand into my jeans pocket and stepped out into the warm August morning. A typical muggle street faced me, lined with cars. I set off briskly, turning corners at random, until I reached a public park. A nice large grassy area surrounded a dilapidated roller-rink, but the playground itself had obviously been refurbished recently. I sat on one of the swings as small muggle children scrambled up climbing frames and played on the newly painted slide and roundabout. Swinging gently, I realised just how much I had wanted some me-time. I was sick of retreating to my bedroom, sick of sharing quarters with Weasleys. I was a Malfoy, forced to live with people towards whom my feelings ranged from apathy to active dislike, to despising them.

Unable to find any decent books in the house, unable to engage in a stimulating conversation, I craved the ultimate elegance of silence. Away, I wanted to be away. Away from their mess, with jackets strewn over the backs of chairs, away from their incessant babble. I craved the sophistication of Malfoy Manor; the elegance of the trappings, the peace and tranquillity. I craved silken Summer afternoons with the excellent company of Misty and an interesting book. I was bored beyond belief. The fear was dying, the terror of the Dark Lord finding me. He seemed miles away, and insignificant, as the warmth and light of the sun washed over me. And Hogwarts seemed miles away too. Suffice to say, I would not be attending the new school year. Would the others be? I wondered. Potter wouldn't; he wanted to devote himself full time to the fight against Lord Voldemort. And Weasley R. would follow his hero over a cliff edge. Granger? Would she give up furthering her education? Ultimately yes, I decided. She would stay with Potter out of friendship and loyalty, and with Weasley R. out of…well, I didn't want to pursue that thought. As far as I was concerned, any female who consented to kissing Weasley R. without the excuse of being blind drunk was distinctly lacking in taste, and thus not worthy of my concern.

What about the Weasley girl? With her recent split with Potter it seemed likely that she would return to Hogwarts. She had less to stay away for than any of the others, and she might well want to avoid her new ex-boyfriend.

I yawned and stretched luxuriously in the sunlight. My father used to say that I was a cat in human clothing; dignified, demanding and supremely selfish. A twinge of pain ran through me. _I'm not entirely selfish_, I argued with myself. If I had a chance to do something differently, perhaps if I could go back in time and offer the Dark Lord my life in return for him sparing my mother… _I would!_ I told myself. _I would die in an instant if it could be her, here, enjoying the sunshine._ But the words felt flat inside me. Truth to tell, I was moving on. A few weeks with the Order of the Phoenix, a few weeks without her and the ache was dying. Was I really so terrible? Out here, in the sunshine, happy and peaceful for once, it was impossible to wish my life away. _The past is past. You made me what I am, and now I shall carry your legacy onwards._ I'd like to say those inspiring words were the only ones which came to me in the sun. But I'd be lying. As I stretched out on the grass and watched an attractive jogger pass me through slitted eyes, the word _Coward_ danced round and round my mind.

* * *

Weasley R. returned some time after Potter had pulled off his vomiting trick in the afternoon. Seething with pent up frustration, Mummy Weasley took it out on him. He had barely come through the door when it started. Listening in the living room, I heard every word. 

"Where have you been?"

_"Filth, Blood Traitors!" _(Ah yes, and the rancid cow in the portrait in the hallway had her say as well.) A murmur followed.

"I said 'WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN'?" I winced as the volume tripled.

"Out."

"'Out'? Is that all you can say, Ron? Out? You're ALWAYS out!"

"Well if I'm going to be yelled at whenever I come home it's seems a better option."

_"Desecrating the house of my ancestors!"_

"Don't take that tone with me, young man! None of you children have any consideration for what you are putting your father and me through."

"I'm not a child, Mother!" He sounded very upset. I allowed myself a satisfied smile. A miserable Weasley R. is always conducive to a happy Draco M.

"Then stop acting like one, Ronald. There's Ginny, throwing strops and wanting to move out, there's you, out all the time, back at all hours, going God knows where! And then there's Harry, bless him, feeling so insecure he can't even ask his friends for help in taking on the You Know Who! If you were in more he wouldn't be upstairs unconscious."

"Oh, so now that's my fault?" Weasley R. yelled. I could see his point, I supposed. Potter's condition was really entirely his own stupid fault, but M. Weasley was on a roll. She was matching the portrait in volume (not a mean feat), which incidentally was currently wailing _"Shame, shame, shame!"_

"Honestly!" M. Weasley cried passionately. "The only one of you children with an ounce of thoughtfulness is Hermione. I don't know where I'd be without her helping me in the kitchen, running errands, helping tidy up after you lot."

"Well, too bad Hermione isn't your daughter," Weasley R. said bitterly. "Why don't you adopt her? And Malfoy too, whilst you're at it." Ah, I'd wondered how long it would be before I was dragged into the argument.

_"Vile filth!"_

"At least Draco isn't causing me problems and worrying me sick!" she retorted. I snorted. I had better things to do with my time than bother with worrying lesser life forms.

"Oh, it's 'Draco' is it, now?" Weasley R. snarled. "Getting very cosy with him, aren't you, Mother? Well, aren't you lucky? Unlike Lockheart, Malfoy actually lives with us! So you won't need to bother cutting out his photo in the Prophet!" There was a sharp sound. I pricked up my ears, wondering who had slapped who.

"Go to your room, now." Her quiet tone was far more deadly than any of her previous yelling.

"No, I don't think I will." He sounded hurt, on the verge of tears. At a guess, I'd say she had slapped him. "I'm going out again, Mother. I can barely breathe in this house, and I'd hate to keel over and cause you further worry." The front door slammed shut. What followed hit me hard. A sobbing sound. Stealthily I stood up and slunk to the doorway, peeking out cautiously. Whilst the portrait continued its banshee screaming, M. Weasley sat on the bottom stair and sobbed into her hands.

I froze in indecision. A good person, the sort of person I was turning into more and more these days, would have offered comfort and support. A selfish person would have shrugged and gone back to amusing himself. A Malfoy would have laughed. What was Draco to do? In the end I pulled out my wand, walked into the hallway and cast a silencing spell on the portrait. I pulled the curtains across as the lady kept opening and shutting her mouth like a goldfish, then turned back to the woman on the stairs. She was snuffling into a handkerchief now. I walked past her, into the kitchen, and returned three minutes later, bearing a steaming mug of tea. She glanced up uncertainly, drying her eyes hastily as I stopped in front of her, and seemed surprised when I offered it to her.

"Thank you. That's very kind." She sniffed loudly. "I, I don't know what to say. You're seeing us at our worst." I didn't reply, just gave her the tea and walked up the stairs. A good person would have offered comfort and support, would have listened and offered encouragement. I guess I'm not a good person after all.

As I trotted upstairs I bumped into the Weasley girl. She actually physically walked into me, and there was an embarrassing moment as we untangled ourselves.

"Was that Ron I heard?" she asked, avoiding looking at my face.

"Yes. And your mother. Why is he out all the time?" I wasn't really curious; it was just a mystery that would be neater if resolved. She shrugged.

"I don't know. I think he's got another girlfriend, perhaps." Her head snapped up, face blazing. "Don't you dare tell Hermione I said that!" I laughed lightly.

"Relax. I have better things to do than gossip about your brother. Believe me." She frowned, and then pushed past.

"Excuse me."

As I watched her go downstairs an urge to laugh harder filled me. I mastered it with difficulty. This was the famous Order of The Phoenix? This was the mighty Weasley family? If Voldemort could see what a dysfunctional bunch of selfish, miserable dishcloths were facing him he'd laugh and sleep easy. All of them were too wrapped up in themselves to have time to truly fight. Potter: trying too hard, injuring himself again and again in his quest to prove himself the next Dumbledore. Weasley R.: dissatisfied, moody and too busy drowning in angst to see past his own concerns. The Weasley girl: searching for something that just wasn't there, and missing what she had in the process. I mean, come on! She was dating Harry Potter, The Boy Who Is Loved By Millions, and she wasn't satisfied? Granger: well, she was certainly having problems with her boyfriend as well. Particularly if he was cheating on her. Daddy Weasley: struggling to hold onto his family, his job and a chance of winning this war. Mummy Weasley: stressed, terrified of anything 'bad' happening. And their various Auror friends. None of them were around enough to notice that the core of the Order of The Phoenix was rotten, that their organisation was falling apart.

And I wouldn't care except that it was my problem too.

I stopped outside Potter's room, unwilling to walk in on what sounded like a very private conversation. Listening carefully, I could make out Granger's voice.

"What happened to us, Harry?" she whispered. "What happened to the four of us? You and Ginny, and me and Ron. We were all going to go hunting Horcruxes together. Don't you remember? At Dumbledore's funeral we said we'd do it together. But you never let us in anymore. You talk to Draco more than us, Ginny's leaving and I'm losing Ron and I don't know what to do." I could hear the catch in her voice. Potter appeared to be still asleep, as he offered her no answer. She went on. "We're falling apart. And I want to blame Draco, but I can't. It's _us_ Harry. It's us. We're falling apart and drifting further and further away from each other. What's happened to us?"

And then he did answer her.

"I'll do better," he croaked. "I'll do better. Oh, Hermione, I'm so _sorry_. I've been neglecting you, and Ron, and I won't anymore. I'll be here, and it will be the three of us, like old times. Always the three of us."

I left them to their sugar-coated words, and instead pondered what to do. Bored, with no one to talk to, I decided to go out and was just getting my leather jacket (all right, Potter's leather jacket) out of the hall cupboard when the front door opened and Daddy Weasley came in. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he dumped his briefcase on the floor with a bang.

"Draco. Just the person I wanted to talk to." _Uh oh…_He shut the door firmly behind him. "Perhaps we could go to the kitchen?" I nodded silently. Up until now, Daddy Weasley had paid me the minimal amount of attention. I might as well have been a smelly hamster Potter had installed in a cage in the loo; something unpleasant to be ignored. This indifference had suited me perfectly, and I felt a certain amount of apprehension as we entered the kitchen. Daddy Weasley shut the door behind him (not a good sign) and turned to me.

"What do you know about Dawlish?" he said quietly.

"Who?" I asked. I'd never even heard the name before.

"Dawlish," he repeated. "He is, _was_ as Auror."

"I've never heard of him before," I said softly.

"Where did you go out today?" Daddy Weasley asked, changing tack. I shrugged.

"To a park. Why?"

"And how long were you there?" I was getting tired of this.

"Not that it's any of your business, but a few hours, I suppose." I narrowed my eyes. "Oh wait; I see where this is heading. An Auror dies at the same time I'm out of the house; ergo I _must_ be the killer. Brilliant deduction, Holmes!" The words came out more bitter than I had intended, but I was growing so sick of accusations.

"I was merely going to ask if you talked to anyone whilst you were out," Daddy Weasley said, with false patience.

"Yes!" I snapped. "Aunt Bellatrix and my Father stopped by, so I told them it'd be a real laugh if they killed this random Auror! I confess!" Daddy Weasley gripped the back of one of the kitchen chairs hard.

"Draco, this is not a laughing matter. A man has died."

"And I am very sorry that has happened," I replied. "I really wish I could help you, but you'll have to believe me when I say I had _nothing_ to do with it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a sick person to visit." Without waiting for a reply, I pushed past him and pulled open the door, before stalking out.

I made my way back to Potter's room, dumping the leather jacket on the banister, still seething inside. How dared they? All of them! I was the reason their bloody Chosen One was still alive, I had put my neck on the line for them, and were they grateful? Oh no, it was accusation after accusation. It would serve them right if I did betray them to Voldemort, I thought bitterly. But in reality I couldn't even do that, as I wasn't the Secret Keeper of the headquarters. In a grumpy mood I barged into Potter's room, and was pleased (no, wrong word. More like, slightly less grumpy) to see that he was alone. He glanced up as I entered.

"Draco."

"If you'd broken your neck you know you'd bloody well have deserved it," I snarled. I threw up my hands. "I mean, what kind of fool are you? Pulling a stupid stunt like this! What's it supposed to prove, your testosterone levels?" Potter smiled.

"Wow, Draco. I never knew you cared."

"I don't!"

"You're yelling."

"I'm not!" I yelled. He smiled for a minute, and then a funny expression crossed his face.

"Draco – bucket, quick!"

Later on (once he had finished retching) I set the bucket aside (that bucket will haunt me for years to come) and faced him. He looked tired, but also somewhat pleased with himself.

"Wipe that smug expression off your face and hang your head," I ordered him. He laughed, which turned into a hiccough, and I shoved the bucket under his nose just in time. "Look, Potter, what the hell is going on? This didn't happen when you destroyed the last Horcrux, did it?" He shook his head wearily.

"No, but it was harder this time."

"And you did it all by yourself!" I snorted. "Typical, idiotic, suicidal Potter thing to do."

"I am not typically suicidal," he said, hurt. I laughed.

"Potter, this whole dance started with me finding you hacking away at your wrist. You are far from normal, my friend."

"Am I?" he asked, his tone slightly awed.

"Certifiably weird," I assured him.

"No." He shook his head. "Not that. It's just… you called me your friend. Am I?" I frowned, caught off guard, surprised. He tried to kill me a year ago, and I tried to curse him. We'd fought for so long, we'd argued, we'd hated. So many doubts… but one couldn't live in doubt, could one? It was time I took control of my life again. I clapped my hands and laughed.

"Well, my life's been turned upside down anyway. Lodging with the Weasley crew and all…urgh, a year ago I'd have killed myself first." I smiled, a genuine smile. "Yeah, why not? Let's be friends."

* * *

_Wow, can't believe I finally got to write this scene…  
__So, you like? Hit the button!_


	13. Regulus

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter - not mine. Draco Malfoy - not mine. Quirky Draco Malfoy - mine!_

_A/N – Yes! This chapter took its time coming, but what can you expect with chapter 13. Not that I'm superstitious…  
__Ok, so here you go. Hope you like._

_And a plug – if you like Names you'll probably like my sister's amazing new story – "The Killing Curse". He name is Kaluki – there's a link to her account in my profile. Her muse exists on a diet of reviews and needs feeding!!

* * *

_

Regulus

_Harry Potter fights for his life!!_

_This week the entire wizarding world must hold its breath as the boy hailed as 'The Chosen One', destined to defeat He Who Must Not Be Named, struggles for his life. _

_Two days ago Harry Potter was horribly weakened through a magical accident, Cleopatra Fama reports. Sources close to him reveal that he was working on a way to defeat You Know Who, and that, although damaging, his experiments were successful. _

_However, the cost of these experiments was heavy, as Harry Potter is now bedridden and 'very ill'. He has not entered St Mungo's Hospital, but is instead resting and recuperating in the Headquarters of the legendary Order of the Phoenix (for a full list of the Order's activities over the past year turn to page 4)._

Blah blah blah… wait…

_Among those helping Harry to recover is rumoured to be the renegade Deatheater, Draco Malfoy, whose allegiance remains a subject of speculation for the entire wizarding world (for a closer look at Draco Malfoy's recent activities turn to page 5)._

"AAAARRGGHHH!" I screamed, tearing the paper in half. "Where the hell is this woman getting her information? And why does she _insist_ on drawing Voldemort's attention back to me every five minutes? Why can't she let people just forget about me?"

"Be grateful," Potter remarked. "She's made me out to be at Death's door. At least her accounts of you are fairly accurate." He was sitting up in bed, propped by a mound of cushions.

"How?" I demanded. "How the hell does she know all this stuff?" Potter shrugged.

"Someone's telling her, Draco. This isn't the first time, remember?"

"That bitch," I snarled. "Cleaopatra bloody Fama. It's her fault. With her first article she told Voldemort I'd helped you." I gestured violently at the ripped paper. "It's her fault my mother is dead!" Saying the words reopened the wound I thought had healed, and I swallowed, barely able to choke out the next words. "How is she allowed to do this? How can she? Publicising your movements? The Dark Lord knows everything we're doing, as does the rest of the world, thanks to her!" Potter sighed.

"Shacklebolt talked to her recently, in an attempt to ask her to discriminate between what should and should not be printed. She threatened to take him to Court, defending her right to Free Speech. She's not interested in anything except the next sensation."

"I'll give her a sensation all right," I snarled. "I'll tear her fingers off and make her write about that!" Potter smiled. "What?" I snapped.

"Am I doing something?"

"You're smirking, and you know it."

"Me?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Want me to practice my finger breaking technique on you?" He laughed.

"No. But it's just… nice. To see you alive again. You'd become so dead after you came here." I snorted.

"What do you expect? Forcing me to live with the wretched Weasley horde…Was I expected to flourish in this environment?" The smile left his face.

"They are my friends."

"I said I'd be your friend, not theirs," I warned. "And I'll reconsider that if you start demanding that I get on with them."

"Could you at least be civil to them?" he asked. His green eyes were anxious and sad and wistful all at once. Inwardly I groaned. It shouldn't have touched me, seeing that expression on his face, but it did.

"Fine," I replied grudgingly. "I will attempt to be polite, but only on the condition that they are civil in return." He smiled again, and the concession didn't feel so bad.

I stood and stretched.

"I'm going for food and a walk." He laughed.

"You're not going to offer to bring me chicken soup?"

"Don't push it," I warned. Smiling, I left the room and walked downstairs. As soon as I entered the kitchen I felt the change in the atmosphere. A wall of icy hostility hit me hard. Sitting at the kitchen table were Daddy Weasley, Mummy Weasley, the werewolf Lupin, Madeye Moody and the Auror Tonks. I was pinned against the wall as they all turned their stares collectively on me. That's five pairs of eyes, all focussed on me. Self conscious? Moi? Never…

"Malfoy, there's something we need to talk about," Daddy Weasley began. My mind flicked back to our previous conversation two days ago, and I got that queasy sensation in my stomach that meant my breakfast wanted to make a bid for freedom. I didn't want to be accused again, I didn't want another confrontation. Striving for patience, I nodded.

"About what?" Moody held the Daily Prophet in his hand and waved it under my nose.

"About this, Malfoy. About what the word secrecy actually means."

"The Order of the Phoenix obviously has a mole," Mummy Weasley said, more gently. "Someone is leaking information, Draco."

"And who else could it be, but that slimy son of a Deatheater?" I snapped.

"No one's accusing you yet, Malfoy," Lupin began. "We're just trying to reach the truth."

"The truth?" I was yelling now, having lost all vestiges of self control. The pain I had been struggling to cope with hit me hard, and I hated them all, for doubting me when I'd done nothing wrong. "The truth is that the first article Cleopatra bloody Fama wrote damaged me! And the second one was exclusively about me! Or has that slipped your minds? If anyone's being targeted by the wretched woman, it's me!"

"He does have a point," Tonks murmured. "The first one she wrote was about how he helped Harry."

"Something which only he and Potter knew about," Moody growled. "Doesn't let him off the hook."

"Are you mad?" I asked. "Firstly other people knew; all you Order of The Phoenix chappies. And secondly, that article wrecked my life! I was forced to run from Voldemort! I lost my mother and my uncle! My aunt's still missing, my father's disinherited me, Voldemort wants to torture me and to cap it off I'm reduced to slumming it with-" I stopped hurriedly, biting my tongue. I'd promised Potter I wouldn't insult them, although I was certainly being provoked.

"Yes?" Daddy Weasley's tone was dangerous. "Would you care to finish that sentence, Draco?"

"Forget it," I muttered. "My point is, if you read her other two articles you'll see that I am most certainly not your leak. The first one called me a 'turncoat'." I continued, spitting out the words that were burned into my soul. "'Disgraced', 'Grief-stricken former Deatheater'. Does this sound like I'm working with the bitch?"

"Draco, we're just trying to stop this from happening again," Lupin placated me. "We're not only targeting you; we've already asked Mundungus, Ron and Hermione about this." _Mundungus?_ I dismissed the name as irrelevant. "And we've sent an owl off to Fred, George and Ginny. But since they no longer live here, it seems highly unlikely that they are involved."

"Any of those you asked confess?" I asked bitterly. Mummy Weasley bowed her head. "I thought not. Useless."

"Draco, whoever this is has been very clever. Ms Fama keeps mentioning 'sources', but none of them have any personality attached to them, rendering whoever it is untraceable." I held up my hands at Tonks' words.

"Just leave me out of it, ok? That's all I ask. Just leave me alone."

I walked out of the kitchen, shutting the door behind me, then knelt down and placed my ear to the keyhole.

"Any Malfoy can lie," Moody said angrily. "His father could convince a snake it had legs and was dancing."

"I think Draco is telling the truth," Lupin said.

"So do I," Tonks agreed. "He's right, you know. He certainly has suffered because of what this woman has written."

"Yes, but if it's not him then who is it?" Mummy Weasley asked.

"We don't know," Daddy Weasley said grumpily. "And as long as we don't, this will continue." There was a long, thoughtful silence, and then one of them coughed apologetically.

"I'm afraid I have a favour to ask of you," Lupin said softly.

"What is it?" Mummy Weasley asked.

"Tonight is a full moon, as you probably know. I have learnt how to make the potion which restrains me myself, but still I need a safe place to transform. My current bolthole is no longer an option. I was rather hoping that I could use the attic."

"You want to transform… here?" Mummy Weasley's voice sounded strained. "What about the children?"

"He won't hurt anyone," Tonks said protectively. "And I'll stand guard outside the door, to make sure he stays in there. It will be perfectly safe."

"Well…" Mummy Weasley sounded extremely reluctant. I left them to it, and greeted the announcement at dinner that Lupin and Tonks would be staying the night with no surprise.

They didn't bother to wake me the next morning, so I found out the news second hand. Typical, isn't it? Next to Potter, I was the one most involved in this whole Horcrux hunt and I was the one who had the most to win or lose (until Voldemort was a pile of ashes I could not re-enter the wizarding world, but had to spend my time skulking around in a house teeming with Weasleys), but no one bothered telling me when we hit a breakthrough.

And so it was that when I rolled down to breakfast I was greeted by a deserted kitchen. Ok… it was not like Weasley R. to miss the opportunity to stock up. And Granger was not the slinky little creature some girls aspire to be (mind you, I couldn't stand those bloody skinny girls at Hogwarts who made a show of eating a single grape for breakfast. Damn skeletons in uniform. Who wants to sleep with a skeleton? Ouch). But there was no sign of either, nor indeed of Mummy Weasley, Daddy Weasley, Tonks or Lupin (whose howling had kept me awake half the night). Strange.

Actually not so strange; it didn't take a genius to guess where the gathering was taking place. I grabbed an apple, turned my back on the kitchen and loped back upstairs to the landing I shared with Potter. Instead of turning into my room I went into his. Soft babble hit me as I pushed the door open. As predicted, there they all were, ringed around the bed where Potter was sleepily blinking behind his glasses, looking for all the world like a little Scops owl. His messy hair even formed two roughly equal tufts, like the owl. As I watched he yawned, then smiled when he saw me. Funny, how a year ago I'd have assumed that a smile from him directed at me was always mocking, and would have longed to wipe it off. It was only now that I knew him better that I could appreciate how genuine his smiles were, the way he looked truly glad to see you, the warmth that spilled from his eyes. _He's been through so much, and he's still more human than me._ I shook myself, surprised by the thoughts. _Get a grip Draco. Next you'll be falling in love with that smile._

I returned his greeting with my own poor smile. Teeth which beamed, eyes chilly. I'd gotten out of the habit of showing my emotions a long time ago, and it took more than a month (had I really been here that long?) with someone like Potter to melt the shield of feigned disinterest.

The others around the bed greeted me with varying levels of affection. Tonks actually smiled and said, "Good morning Draco." Granger acknowledged me with a 'oh it's you' look. Weasley R. gave me an 'I don't like you, bugger off' glare, which was distinctly unfriendly. Daddy Weasley's look was openly hostile, whilst Mummy Weasley's was somewhat softer. _She likes me now_, I realised. And why not? With the exception of a few tantrums I had made a point of behaving myself perfectly in the presence of all but Potter. I was easy to feed, capable of amusing myself and undemanding. The perfect unwanted house guest.

Lupin was too busy looking at whatever was in the box he held in his hands to notice me at the beginning, until Tonks' greeting (why she said that I don't know. I had barely exchanged two words with her in those few times we met).

"Morning all," I said cheerfully, to hide my annoyance at being left out. "Pray tell, what is the raison d'être for this impromptu symposium?" All of them gaped at me, except for Granger, who rolled her eyes. Inside I laughed. As the Weasleys gape, thus the ants must stare at us as we tower above them, incomprehensible to their tiny minds. "I asked why everyone is gathered here."

"Lupin found something," Tonks said.

"Oh yes?" I pushed past Weasley R. and Granger and sat on the side of the bed. Harry met my eyes with his steady gaze. I mean _Potter_ met my eyes with his steady gaze. "And qu'est qu ce the object of interest?"

"You speak French?" Potter asked. I shrugged modestly.

"We have a villa on the Southern Coast. Not going this year was a decision with many unforeseen consequences. But enough about me and my fabulous wealth. What's Lupin got there?" Potter glanced up.

"Lupin, why don't you show Draco?" The werewolf nodded, and bent down, bringing the box in front of me. Inside, nestling in a cushion of cotton wool, was a golden chain. Next to it were three pieces of golden metal, which, when brought together, would form a thin box: a locket. Inscribed on the fragmented locket was a broken 'S'.

"A bit bulky for my taste," I commented. "What is it?"

"This," Potter said, and he was grinning, "This, my dear Draco, is the remnants of a locket which originally belonged to Salazar Slytherin." My heart practically stopped.

"And why is it broken?" I asked, barely breathing. "Do you have this mania where you just can't leave priceless relics alone, Potter?"

"Harry didn't break it," Granger said. "He'd probably be dead if he tried."

"You see," Potter explained, "This is another of Voldemort's Horcruxes. And it's already been broken for us!"

"Yes," I said miserably. "Into three bits, and I doubt even the best jeweller could fix it properly." I reached down and gently ran my finger across the jagged edge of one of the fragments. It had not been a clean break, as if the locket had resisted the force which sought to tear it apart. I could feel the violence that had destroyed it, even after Merlin knows how many years.

"This is an amazing stroke of luck," Daddy Weasley breathed.

"Yes," Lupin agreed. "Four Horcruxes down, two to go."

"Two?" Weasley R. queried. "He split his soul into seven. That only makes six."

"And one part in his body, to do all the important things like torturing and killing people, idiot," I reminded him. He flushed an unattractive scarlet, whilst his nose remained white. I swallowed the impulse to laugh.

"How did this come to be in our attic?" Mummy Weasley asked.

"Oh, so you found it?" I asked Lupin. He nodded.

"I don't remember much from when I was changed, but I do remember that this smelt wrong. Very wrong. The feeling it gave me was strong enough for me to be able to locate it instantly as soon as I changed back." I noticed that he was sitting stiffly, with a fresh bruise colouring the side of his neck, but declined to comment.

"But how does a Horcrux containing part of, of You Know Who's soul come to be in Sirius' attic?" Mummy Weasley asked. Potter visibly paled. _Still can't bear to hear that name? Aunt Bellatrix moved on a long time ago, Harry, and you should too._ There was an awkward silence.

"What about my relative, Regulus Black?" I asked, breaking the tension. Potter nodded.

"Sirius' brother." To his credit, he kept his voice steady. "I researched him, with Hermione."

"His full name is Regulus Appolonius Black," she said softly. "We think he was R.A.B."

"Who's R.A.B?" Daddy Weasley asked, frowning. Potter yawned and kneaded his eyes.

"When I went with Dumbledore, the night Snape k-killed him we were looking for this Horcrux." Looking angry at the way his voice had quavered, he rolled over in bed and opened a drawer in his bedside table. "'Scuse me Ron. Ah, here." He pulled out a smaller locket, obviously cheaply plated in gold, on a long chain. "Dumbledore drank a horrible potion left by Voldemort which nearly killed him, in order to reach the Horcrux. We got this instead." Using his thumbnail he delicately opened it and pulled out a folded square of paper. Passing the cheap locket to Daddy Weasley, who examined it curiously, he then carefully unfolded the paper and smoothed it with his fingertip.

"_To the Dark Lord_," he read out. "_I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more._ It's signed R.A.B."

"Regulus Appolonius Black," Tonks murmured.

"The writer calls Voldemort the 'Dark Lord'," I observed. "Sign of a Deatheater. And Regulus was." Potter frowned then smiled.

"You know, Draco, I'd never noticed that before." Weasley R. snorted, but I ignored him.

"Regulus Black was murdered by Lord Voldemort for attempting to desert him," Lupin said softly. "I remember being there when the news came in that they had found his body."

"Desertion," I repeated. "What if it wasn't just desertion? What if Regulus was murdered for actually plotting against Voldemort?"

"Can't imagine that You Know Who would be very happy if one of his Deatheaters started smashing up his Horcruxes," Weasley R. contributed.

"And where better to leave the fragments than in his family home, heavily shielded from all, including the Voldemort?" Granger said.

I laughed, and the others looked at me with surprise.

"Oh the irony! Regulus is heralded by all Deatheaters as a coward, as a fool, as a craven who got in too deep and wanted out. But you don't get out with Voldemort. And then in real life he's been plotting against the Dark Lord. He discovers the location of the Horcrux, he faces Voldemort's barriers, he steals the locket. He even, shock horror, _breaks_ the locket, rendering Voldemort more vulnerable. Well of course the Dark Lord can't let people know how mortal he really is; that he can be hurt. So Regulus is killed 'for cowardice', and everyone is keen _not_ to emulate him. Very clever of Voldemort: he removes a major threat and conceals his vulnerabilities in one stroke."

_And what will they say when I die? Draco Malfoy, killed for believing that what the Dark Lord did was wrong, for wanting to find another way. Or Draco Malfoy, incompetent coward, executed for desertion?

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_The button is down here somewhere… the one which says 'submit review'. Click it, and start my new year off with a smile ._


	14. A bad person

_A/N:I know, I know it took AGES coming. I have assessments next week, so this is my way of skipping revision…hehe._

_Anyways, a majorly hard chapter to write. You'll see why. And yeah, I do understand that the way the plot goes is going to be very unpopular with some of you guys, but what can I say? War has its unpleasant bits… _

* * *

A bad person

I'm a bad person. That's the conclusion I've come to. Over a month after the disappearance of my mother where was I? Frantically searching for her? Tracking down her supposed-murderer with vengeance in my heart? Wracked with grief, inconsolable and suicidal? No. I was walking through Muggle streets, feeling the end of the August sunshine. It was a week before Hogwarts restarted (or whatever was left of the school for whoever was left alive). A strange lethargic peace fell over me as the sunshine warmed my face and the wind stroked through my hair. I wandered aimlessly down side streets, aiming for the roads with their sleepy houses where few people walked and the cars sat quiet. Silence was a commodity rarely to be had in 12 Grimwauld Place, and I coveted it above almost all else.

I took the opportunity as I walked to think. It is one thing to flee desperately from Lord Voldemort and it is quite another to consider the consequences of your actions a month later. The world of Voldemort and Deatheaters and death and horror was a million miles away, and here I was, a palaeontologist, helping Potter to excavate the fossilised remnants of the Dark Lord's past. Just one difference: when the palaeontologists find a t-rex arm bone the dinosaur is never going to come back to claim it. What would Voldemort do when he discovered that we were smashing his precious Horcruxes? I shuddered slightly at the thought.

But the sun was warm, and I was at peace with myself. My future was certain: I had bound myself to this boy Harry Potter, for better or for worse, and I would stay with him. In truth, he was not as terrible as I remembered, but then neither was I any longer. Over the past month I had grown up fast, and I blushed when I remembered my tantrums the day I came to Grimwauld Place. I had learnt to control myself around people I believed to be inferior, something which the life of a Malfoy had never taught me. Not Potter though. For some reason I no longer perceived him as inferior. He still made me nervous: I didn't like it when his eyes darkened in a temper. It would take more than a month to make me forget that bathroom, to forget the power he had wielded and the fury in his eyes… But I was getting there. And besides, I was hardly defenceless. Through gentle testing of his mental defences I had worked out that I was at least his equal in Occlumency, and Aunt Bellatrix had once told me that he would never ever be able to perform an Unforgivable properly, like I could. She had said that he didn't have the necessary malice in him, and I was growing more inclined to believe her.

Aunt Bellatrix: I refused to believe that she had been killed when Erebos was razed to the ground. The Dark Lord valued her too much. But what of her? I didn't even know her well enough to know if she'd have stood with her sister against her Lord. Or would she have abandoned my poor defenceless mother to the Dark Lord and was even now trying to hunt me down? If that was the case I could not claim to be surprised; my Father's reaction to my defection had been a sharp lesson in what a Malfoy does and doesn't do if he wants to retain that exalted name.

Subconsciously my feet had brought me back to Grimwauld Place. I glanced around surreptitiously, checking for unwelcome eyes, then focussed my mind. The house expanded into being and I climbed the steps and murmured the spells needed to unlock the door. It swung open and I crept inside silently, desperate to avoid waking up the hideous woman in the portrait in the hallway.

And it hit me, like a wet sponge in the face.

A wave of misery and human anguish and suffering.

And all I thought was _Urgh! What now? My day was going so well…_

Like I said, I'm not a good person. I'm not a kind, compassionate, caring person who walks around with lemon sherbet in his pockets to give to little children when they skin their knees. I walk around with a wand and perhaps some evil amulet in my pocket. I don't do caring and I loathe sharing. _Excuse me? I have problems enough of my own thank you, and since I don't foist them on you lot I'd rather you didn't insist on shovelling yours onto me._

Carefully avoiding the kitchen and any rooms likely to contain Weasleys I went in search of the one person in this house I could trust to give me a concise answer, _sans_ weeping, wailings, tearing out of hair etc. Potter. I took the stairs to his room two at a time, knocked, opened the door, trotted in and said breezily, "So, who died?" One look at his face was enough to make the smile drop from my lips. "Oh God, who died?" He was sitting up in bed, a large amount of damp, scrumpled tissues surrounding him. I had an inkling that he had not been the only contributor to them, simply because their sheer number meant that Victoria Falls would have had to stream from his eyes to fill them all. Peering closer, I saw that he was at the 'so shocked I can not actually react' stage, and that the tissues had serviced someone else. An extremely feminine sniff, which ended in a sob, came from someone other than him.

Potter turned away from me as I came further into the room, close enough to see the Weasley girl sitting on the floor on the other side of his bed. As I watched she reached for another tissue and blew her nose with a wet sound. Potter had his hand resting on her head, and his stunned expression remained fixed. The Weasley girl ignored me as she dropped the tissue onto her lap and took up what was obviously an interrupted narrative.

"And the house was s-such a m-mess, and the sh-shop, and the d-door was, was _broken down_." She gave a shuddering half sob and Potter made a soothing sound. "And ab-bove in the sk-sky that h-horrible m-mark. It was so-so-so _bright and big_." She dissolved into more tears, then glanced up and fixed bleary eyes on me. "What is _he _doing here?" Potter glanced back at me, and spoke softly.

"He lives here, Ginny."

"N-no!" she shrieked through tears. "He's one of th-them H-Harry! He has the m-mark on his wrist!" Potter winced and subconsciously rubbed the sweat band on his left wrist as I stood there, frozen. _Shoot, here we go again._ "He's evil, and he's got the m-mark and he's bringing V-Voldemort _HERE!_" She screamed the word and flung out her hand, pointing accusatorily at me. I flinched slightly. Potter bit his lip.

"The mark doesn't mean anything, now Ginny," he said softly. He attempted to pull down her hand but she flung him off.

"Yes it does!! It means he's evil, it means he works for Voldemort and V-V-Voldemort killed F-fred and George!" Looking horrified with herself for saying the words, she stuffed her hand in her mouth and gave a shuddering moan. "NOOOOOO!!! I don't want it to be this way!"

Potter gave me a 'leave now' look and I obliged. I loathe emotional females, but more than that I was shaken. Was this true? Had the Dark Lord struck to the very core of the fragile family unit that called itself _The Order of the Phoenix_? If so I could see even greater amounts of hatred coming my way.

There, you see, I am a bad person. My first reaction was _Ok, this isn't going to be good for me._ My SECOND reaction was _Oh dear, that's got to be upsetting_, my third reaction was _Shame, I suppose_ and my fourth reaction was _Meh._ See? I'm a heartless bastard, but at least I have the guts to say it. I went into my room, and stood in front of my mirror, in my t-shirt and jeans and studied myself. Malfoy. Malfoy to the core. Claimed by the Dark Lord, no, worse; self-proclaimed follower of the Dark Lord. And there on my wrist, emblazoned for the world to see, was proof. You feel shame for your mark Potter? You have an excuse; it was forced on you. I chose it willingly, blindly, proudly. And I was such a fool.

The mighty heir to the Malfoys.

Another fool. Just like the rest of them.

I stayed in my room for the rest of the day, perhaps wisely, as tensions were high (to put it mildly). People I'd never seen before dashed in and out the house, the Weasley girl remained in Potter's room and he stayed in bed. Slowly, from overheard conversations, I pieced together the whereabouts of the others. Mrs Weasley had been the one who first saw her daughter when she Flooed herself to here, and shot out of the fireplace covered in soot and tears. The woman had listened as far as 'and Fred and George are gone' before collapsing. She was in bed, blessedly unconscious. Mr Weasley was out searching for the twins, with various members of the Order of the Phoenix. Weasley R. and Granger had been confined to their rooms, and were apparently climbing the walls in frustration. Detached and Malfoy cold, I understood Mr Weasley's reasoning perfectly: he didn't want them under his feet getting into trouble in their zeal to find the twins.

And the story of what had happened filtered to me as well. The Weasley girl had gone out shopping and returned to find the shop ransacked, the door off its hinges and the Dark Mark blazing above. She had searched frantically through the shop and the rooms above to find them all in disarray, before flinging Floo powder in the fire and getting to her parents as fast as she could. So much for her bid for independence…

And the bodies were not found that day, nor that night. The Weasley girl was eventually given a sleeping draught and tucked into bed in her old room. Mrs Weasley woke up and shrieked, "Fred! George!", but when Lupin and I entered her room she had frozen rigid and would not utter a word. Daddy Weasley stayed out all night, and so could not be updated on the condition of his wife. Worry gnawed at me; almost exactly the same thing had happened to my mother. A build up of immense stress followed by a sharp shock. I would not wish her fate on any other person, even a Weasley.

I sneaked into her room the next morning to check up on her, seeing as everyone else was to busy searching for the twins. She sat propped up by the pillows, a cold mug of tea beside the bed. Her face was pale, her red hair rumpled and her eyes unfocused. Knocking, I walked in and perched on the edge of the double bed.

"Mrs Weasley?" Slowly she turned her vacant gaze on me, and her eyes attempted to focus.

"Arthur?" I stiffened. To be mistaken for porky Daddy Weasley! The shame of it…

"No," I said, as gently as my annoyance would allow. "My name is Draco." She smiled warmly.

"George! But where is Fred?" Great. Now she thought I was one of the twins. If it was my mother I would have patiently corrected her again and again, but there was no reason to go through all of that now, so instead I forced a smile.

"We're finding him. He got lost, you see." She reached out and took my hand. I fought the urge to shake her grip off.

"George…I, I had the most terrible dream. I dreamt you were both gone."

"Really?"

"Yes. But now that you're here it's all right." I lowered my voice to its most gentle and reassuring.

"Yes, it's all right. Have you slept at all last night?"

"No…I was worrying. I don't know why; you're here now."

"Mother, are you awake?" The door opened as the voice reached my ears. Guiltily I sprang up, away from the bed, and turned to face Weasley R. standing in the doorway. His face flushed red. "Malfoy. What are you doing here?"

"I came to see if she was all right," I snapped.

"How kind of you!" Weasley spat. "But no thanks. We don't need your compassion, Malfoy."

"She's in shock," I said softly. "If you don't know how to deal with it she'll just get worse."

"Why can't you get it?" Weasley asked furiously. "We don't want you or your help, Malfoy." I shrugged, refusing to allow my temper to rise.

"Your loss, Weaselby."

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!!" he screamed, drawing his wand. The tension of the previous day and last night had obviously set him on edge, and now he looked nothing short of demented, facing me with his wand pointing at my chest. I raised my hands in a peaceful gesture.

"Believe me, Weasley, the last thing you want to do is cast any spells in the same room as her." I jerked my head back at Mrs Weasley, who looked confused. Weasley paused indecisively for a minute, breathing hard, then stuffed his wand in his pocket and stormed out. I heard his footsteps thudding downstairs, and then the portrait of the hag downstairs started screeching, and over her voice the sound of the front door slamming shut reached my ears. I turned helplessly back to Mrs Weasley.

"I'm just going out, um, Mum." She glanced up in surprise at my voice, as if she'd forgotten I was there.

"Have fun, dear."

"Right. Toodles." _Or whatever George usually says._

I edged out of the room, and went in search of Potter. He was sitting in bed scribbling in a notepad.

"Potter, how much longer until you actually stop faking and get out of bed?" He yawned and smiled fleetingly.

"And a good morning to you too, Draco." He frowned. "Any news?"

"None. What are you doing?"

"Making notes. I need to work out what the next Horcrux is." I pricked up my ears at the word, but furrowed my brow in confusion at the same time.

"Shouldn't you be thinking about the twins? Everyone else is." Potter shut his notebook with a snap.

"It may be a shock to you, Draco, but there are more important things for me to consider at the moment." Well, that did surprise me.

"But aren't they your friends?" I enquired. "I mean, I completely agree with you in that there are far more pressing matters to be considered, but isn't that attitude a touch out of character?" Potter breathed out heavily.

"Draco, I'm running out of emotion. Yes, they're my friends and I'm terribly sorry that they're missing, but let's face facts. They're probably dead, and even if they aren't I don't know where to find them and I can't look for them. So what use is my worrying over them?"

"Because it's what good little human beings do."

"Well bully for them."

"You're losing the capacity to care," I said quietly. He passed his hand over his eyes tiredly.

"Yes, I am. I can no longer care about anyone or anything else except this, Draco." He waved the notebook. "I'm trying, but the most important thing is to bring Voldemort down. Once he's dead then I'll have time for my friends."

"Oh." We both turned to see Granger standing in the door. I groaned inside. Was this my day for being walked in on? She shuffled uncomfortably. "I wanted to talk. But I guess you don't, Harry." Pain crossed his face.

"Hermione, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Maybe," she said softly. "But you are obviously busy." Potter looked uncomfortable. She sighed. "If you see Mr Weasley can you tell him I've gone out please?"

"Where are you going?" I asked. She shrugged, and I noticed for the first time the way her eyes glittered, as if she'd been crying.

"To get a drink." Her voice rose at the end, nearly dissolving into a sob, and she turned and clattered downstairs.

"With any luck she'll run into Weasley and they'll have a good weep together," I mused. Potter raised an eyebrow.

"You really don't care, do you, Draco?"

"No," I said softly. "I try, but I really don't. I'm a bad person, you see." I smiled to show him I was not bothered. He reached out and touched my arm, and I started at the unexpected contact.

"You and me both, Draco. You and me both."

* * *

_Aww, further bonding for the boys. Again I'll stress: This is not going to turn slashy. Any references you may think there are to upcoming slash are either your imagination or just me messing with you…hehe, sorry._

_Anyways, please review! I really love it when you do..._


	15. Kitchen Talk

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter J.K. Rowling's. Song words belong to Pink._

_A/N: Never say never… only this morning I was thinking how Names seemed to be on hiatus. And now look! Another chapter (much delayed, I know I know). Anyway, this features a reminder of just how dark Draco can be (he killed Bilpy remember?)_

_Sunshine and roses it ain't.

* * *

_

Kitchen talk

_I'm not dead, just floating_

_Underneath the ink of my tattoo_

_I've tried to hide my scars from you_

The owl hooted loudly and Potter opened his green eyes sleepily. I yawned.

"There's this owl and he wants money and I don't have any money, so give me some money now." Potter ran a hand through his hair tiredly, blinking in the dim morning light that filtered through the net curtains.

"Muh?"

"Money," I whimpered. "Give me the damn money so I can pay the damn bird and go back to sleep."

"Muh?" I was growing more pathetic by the second, as tiredness threatened to cause my knees to buckle.

"Po-o-otter! I have an owl on my wrist. I do not want an owl on my wrist. Have an owl." With a convulsive action of my arm I threw the bird in his direction. It landed on him, claws sinking into his shirted chest, exposed as the duvet was half off the bed and half on the floor.

"Gah!" He leapt up faster than Weasley R. the day we attached a bowtruckle to his rear (a most amusing day that was), and sprawled on the floor.

"See – I knew you were faking," I snorted. The laughter woke me up a little, so that I could now take in what was grasped in the owl's claws. A rolled up newspaper. Ah, the Daily Prophet bird. Although why it had decided that for once it would come into my bedroom instead of the Granger girl's was a mystery. She was probably out.

Grumbling Potter sat up on the ground. The shirt he slept in was torn a little from the owl's free claws, and a bead of blood stained it, growing like a scarlet blossom.

"Draco, that hurt!"

"Whiner," I teased. He growled something unintelligible, dragged himself over to his bedside table, opened the drawer and withdrew a pouch of coins.

"Here you go, you wretched bird." The owl hooted grumpily, accepted the coins, ditched the newspaper and left. Yawning, I sat down on Potter's bed as he clutched his head and gave a groan.

"All right, the illusion's over. You're obviously well enough to be out of bed, so no more sympathy for you." He shot me a look of dark murder.

"Draco, if I were to take this newspaper and hit you over the head with it a hundred times your headache would still not compare to what I am currently feeling." he groaned again. "Ooh, I want to die." I smiled predatorily.

"Well if you close your eyes and wish really hard…" His head snapped up and his eyes glazed briefly in agony.

"Get off my bed and out of my room. Now. I don't like what you're implying." I affected an injured pose.

"I was proposing to spare you from your pain. Next time I won't bother."

Potter said nothing but clambered awkwardly back into bed.

"I ache all over," he moaned. "Damn Horcrux."

"Your own fault," I reminded him. "You were the one who went all heroic. Besides, that was over a week ago. When are you planning to get better?" He smiled wearily.

"I think I'll sit here feeling like a dead dishcloth for a few more days and then miraculously recover." I poked him.

"Wouldn't put it past you." He batted my hand away with the newspaper and I took it from his unresisting fingers. As he lay back into the pillows with a deep sigh I ran my eyes over the headline and gasped.

"Have Fred and George been found yet?" Potter asked, missing the gasp.

"Give me a minute and I'll tell you," I answered. He frowned.

"Why do you need a minute?"

"To read what Ms Cleopatra Fama has to say," I replied tightly. His eyes snapped open and he leant over my shoulder, gaping at the headline.

_Weasleys in Double Jeopardy!_

"That's not even funny," I said, wincing at the poor pun.

"Read on," he breathed. "My eyes are swimming Draco. Please read it to me." He leant back again. I cleared my throat and began to read.

"_The Order of the Phoenix, the legendary organisation created by Albus Dumbledore when He Who Must Not Be Named was at large 19 years ago, was thrown into great shock two days ago,' _our **dear** friend '_Cleopatra Fama reports. Two of its youngest members, Fred Weasley and George Weasley, both 19, have reportedly gone missing (see main photograph)._" Potter opened his sick eyes briefly and I showed him the picture of the twins grinning mischievously in front of their shop. How fitting, that the last glimpse the world was ever likely to get of them should be of them wearing their trademark beams. Potter wobbled and gripped my shoulder for balance and I suddenly realised how grey he looked. How thin. I mean, he was always slender but now his knuckles stood out in his hands and his arms were dangerously close to bony. The drops of blood had fanned out into feathery lines on his shirt, where his movements had smeared the crimson across the material. He still didn't appear to have noticed it. The blood was frighteningly bright against him, with his dull hair (being bedridden he probably hadn't washed it for a while), his pale skin, drained of colour and his grey shirt. He wasn't wearing the sweat band on his wrist, and the Dark Mark glared malignly at me like some horrific plague sore. A plague. That was what Voldemort was, and he was eating away at this boy who used to be so vibrant with anger and determination. _He's fading away_, I thought desperately, and wondered for the first time what horrific toll the breaking of the Horcrux had really taken from him. _And he struggles so much to hide it._ The previous day I'd had no idea how ill he was, because he'd had time to put on his mask. I'd surprised him today and the truth was shocking. _He seems to be getting worse, not better._

"Read on," Potter asked tiredly, and I complied.

"_The twins, pictured outside their establishment Weasley Wizard Wheezes, were taken at some time shortly after noon. Their younger sister, Ginevra Weasley, 16, who was staying with them at the time, is reported to have discovered the shop in a great mess, with the Dark Mark hovering in the sky above it. 'She went in tentatively and then I heard a scream and she came running out, then went back in and I suppose she used the Floo network to get away' an eyewitness said. Although members of the Order of the Phoenix are currently searching for the twins there seems to be little cause for hope for their survival. Leading ministry members have linked this attack to the recent murder of the Auror Dawlish, and believe that these three individuals were all betrayed by the renegade Deatheater Draco Malfoy'_ Oh really now!" I exclaimed in anger. I'd wondered if I was going to be mentioned. Cleopatra Fama seemed quite unable to let go of me, but instead harassed me like a dog worrying a bone. "_A ministry official divulges, 'we're getting very suspicious of Mr Malfoy's allegiances. We have no proof that he is changed, and the Order of the Phoenix is obstructing justice by sheltering him when he is wanted in a murder inquiry.' The Ministry of Magic reveals that it intends to demand that the Order surrender Mr Malfoy to their Aurors by the end of the week or_…" My voice caught in my throat, but I read on determinedly. "_Or Harry Potter, who has claimed responsibility for Mr Malfoy, will be charged with sheltering a known criminal and obstructing justice. Harry Potter is said to still be sick from his recent adventures and fans fear he may be being unwittingly manipulated by Mr Malfoy._" Feeling ill I stopped reading and put the paper down on the bed.

Potter turned his tired eyes to me.

"Are you manipulating me, Draco?" The directness of the question caught me off balance, and I hesitated slightly before answering.

"No, of course not."

"Really?"

"I said I'm not!" I snarled, hurt filling me. Why did I care what Wonder Boy thought of me? Because I'd said I would be his friend, that was why. And he didn't trust that. He looked anxious.

"Then I believe you Draco. Honestly, I do. I believe you, and I trust you." he reached out and took my arm. "You're shaking."

"I'll never lose the stigma, will I?" I asked bitterly. "The Deatheater. Don't trust the Deatheater. You know quite as well as I, Potter, that one does not always wear this brand out of choice." I rolled up my sleeve and wriggled out of his grasp, pressing my mark against his own, feeling our pulses throb beneath Death's calling card. Marked for murder.

His eyes met mine and held them steadily.

"Draco, I would trust you with my life again in an instant." He reached down, lifted my left hand and pressed it to his forehead. Fascinated, I stroked the vivid scar that stood there.

"No one's ever touched that before," he whispered, and shivered. I pulled my hand away, unwilling to cause him pain. He smiled slightly.

"So," I said, attempting a jocular tone. "Four days to decide whether or not you're turning me in to the Ministry. Any ideas what your final decision will be?" He laughed a little.

"Wait, wait, I'm imagining life as a fugitive." He pulled a face. "Can I hand you in and then anonymously break you out from Azkaban?" I pinched his nose.

"No. You promised me safety." _And at one time my mother too. But you couldn't save her. I won't let you fail again. I can't._

"Gib be back by dose."

"Not until you promise to keep me safe."

"I probise."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Draaaaaco!"

"Say it!"

"Cross by heart and hope to die." I released him and he stroked his nose tenderly.

"That really hurt," he whimpered.

"Poor baby," I teased. "Does baby want a rattle to make it better?" Grumpily he shoved my shoulder, and I fought to swallow the lump that rose in my throat as I felt the lack of strength in his action.

* * *

I left him with the newspaper, and went in search of some breakfast. Granger was sitting at the kitchen table, stirring a bowl of porridge with the air of one who could stir porridge for the next five years.

"Morning," I said chirpily. I must have been in an incredibly good mood or something. She started slightly.

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Currently? An orange. You should have one. Vitamin C. It'd perk you up no end." I glanced at her chest provocatively. "If you want to get Weasley back I might suggest a slightly _perkier _look." She folded her arms protectively across her small breasts.

"Lave me alone, Malfoy. I am really not in the mood."

"Someone got out of the wrong side of bed this morning," I observed, peeling my orange. She yawned.

"For your information I didn't sleep at all last night."

"Ah yes. Too busy having a laugh at the pub whilst poor Fred and George have probably expired with despairing last wails of 'Hermione, Hermione where arrrre yooooou?'" She flinched as if I'd slapped her, and then stood up abruptly, pushing her chair back with a hideous scraping sound.

"You sick bastard, Malfoy! How dare you! How dare you? How dare you mock the pain of the people who've taken you in-"

"Welcomed me like one of their own," I jeered.

"Kept you safe!" she thundered. "Ignored your origins, trusted you-"

"My God, have you all forgiven me already for those many many times I betrayed you?" I mocked.

"This isn't funny!" she screamed. "Fred and George are possibly dead, their father is worried sick, their mother has had a mental breakdown…"

"Get used to it, I doubt she'll be passing on any more words of wisdom to you lot," I snarled viciously. I hadn't realized quite how much that article had infuriated me and now it all poured out, directed against someone I was used to hating. Worst, someone I felt contempt for. Someone I was determined to always have the last word over. Her face was flushed red now, and a cruelty was building in me. I wanted to _hurt_, to be in a position of power for once. If I could, I wanted to make her cry.

"So how was your drink last night?" I asked. "Did it make the demons go away? Can you sleep at night, or do their faces fill your mind?" I leant closer. "If you close your eyes, can you hear them scream?"

"This isn't my fault!" she cried, sounding frightened.

"All your brilliance," I purred. "All your intelligence and you are powerless, my dear. Trapped in a kitchen with the son of a Deatheater." She took a step backwards. "You never told me why Weasley left you," I continued, revelling in the delicious feeling of power. Damn but I loved the haunted expression on her face, the way her breath caught.

"No time, with the battle and the Order," she breathed.

"No time? He spends all his time in his room," I scoffed. "Or is it that he's found someone else?"

"That's not true!" she spat.

"After all, how could he compare to you? You excel at every subject. Your brilliance was just so far removed from him… did you drive him away?"

"No," she whimpered.

"Well, whatever the reason, he's dropped you," I breathed. "All alone. And Harry, he's dropped you too… after all, why should the Chosen One spend his time with a mere mudblood?" She gasped audibly.

"Th-that's not Harry!"

"Isn't it? I feel I know him better than you. We're growing quite close, you know," I whispered. "I know even some of his darkest secrets…secrets he never whispered in you ear." She shrank further back, her eyes deep with the misery she was struggling so vainly to conceal. I slunk around the table which separated us, so that I was directly in front of her. I was taller too, and she tried to back away. One step, two steps and she hit the sideboard.

I smiled in a way that revealed my teeth. Hello little fishy, said the shark. Let's play, little fishy.

"I think I understand you now," I hissed. "You were always the clever one, weren't you, Miss Bossy Boots? Always the one who was just a bit too smart for their own good, who showed people up. No one wanted to be your friend, did they? And now its happening all over again isn't it? No one cares." Her breath came faster and faster, sobbing gasps that sang in my ears. "All alone," I whispered, advancing. I was so close now I was looming over her. She had leant back at an angle over the kitchen sideboard, and our hips were touching. Her spare chest heaved.

"Get back, Malfoy," she whispered.

"Is that an order?" I asked.

"Yes." I moved forward, suddenly gripping her wrists in my own behind her back, pressing her hands down onto the sideboard. She twisted with a strangled sob.

"Let me go!"

"Now _that_ sounds more like you're begging." The words slunk from my mouth and caressed her.

"What do you want?" she pleaded.

"I want to be taken seriously," I hissed. "I'm not a child for you to reprimand, Granger. I'm a trained Deatheater. I'm a killer. And if word of that gets out I will find you and I _will_ make you pay."

"What have you done to Harry?" she moaned.

"Nothing," I promised her. "You and Weasley… you did this to him yourselves. And just when he needed you, you two cared about nothing but your own pathetic relationship. My God, Ron's quite the catch, isn't he Granger? A real _man_ to fightfor. To lose a friend over." She whimpered and attempted again to break free. I tightened my grip.

"And you? Well worth him forgetting Harry for, aren't you?" I laughed.

"You're just being spiteful," she snapped. "You're jealous."

"Of what?" I asked. "Of Weasley? But… I have his girl pressed against me right here…" The fear in her eyes darkened. I leaned down, so that my lips were by her ear. "I could do anything," I purred. "And Harry won't believe you. He'll believe me. Anything, Granger. Consider that." She shuddered, and I ran my tongue delicately up her neck to the edge of her jaw, then laughed softly into that ear, framed by such bushy bushy hair. "Just a little thing for you to keep in mind, my dear."

In one fluid motion I released her and sprang away. I didn't bother catching her eyes; instead turning and picking up my discarded orange, I left. As I closed the kitchen door behind me I heard the first choking sob.

As I entered the hallway the front door banged open and Weasley R. fell into the house looking dishevelled (I mean, even more than usual). I smiled at him (or rather, revealed my teeth).

"Ronald! Well met, this fine day! Had a good night with your girlfriend?" he flushed bright red instantly.

"Shut up Malfoy. You don't know what you're talking about!"

"I do you know," I replied. I reached forward, closing the distance between us swiftly. Before he could react I had brushed the long blonde hair off his jacket. "Well, well, well. What is this? Not one of yours, that's for sure." He purpled and made a grab for it.

"Give it back!" I held it tauntingly out of his reach.

"For a name." He stopped instantly.

"Forget it." Turning, he climbed up the stairs.

"I hope Fred and George appreciate how ardently you've been searching for them down some girl's top," I yelled after him. He sent a line of swear words my way, but didn't stop.

I stood there, holding that long blonde hair, watching the way the dim light in the hallway shimmered off it. It was fine, and golden blonde, not silvery like Malfoy. The end was split, I noted. As I played with the spun gold in my fingers a thought occurred to me.

_I wonder what colour Cleopatra Fama's hair is?

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_Duh Duh! Now, here's a hint. If I get more reviews it gives me more incentive to write the next chapter…_


	16. Reunion

Disclaimer: Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling. Song lyrics - The Beatles

A/N – Wow! Lots of reviews! My fingers were all inspired, so this came out far faster than usual… see what you guys achieve when you go the extra mile? Anyways, I hope it was worth the (smaller-than-usual) wait. Review if you want more.

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Reunion

'_All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?'_

The next day a conference was called. The entire family that was the Order of the Phoenix collected in the kitchen (except for Mrs Weasley, who was sitting up in bed in her room, staring at the ceiling and telling everyone who would listen that her babies shone among the stars). The invitation probably didn't extend to me, but I was damned if I was going to have the news come filtering second hand to me again. Sitting around the wooden table was Daddy Weasley (looking haggard), the Auror trio (Moody, a blue haired Tonks and the hulking great black man who called himself Shacklebolt), Lupin (also looking exhausted) and then us lot. By 'us lot' I mean Granger, who resolutely refused to meet my eye, Weasley R. (who seemed to be attempting to cultivate an interesting mould on his chin. Closer inspection proved that he hadn't shaved this morning, and Merlin did it show) who sat as far away from everyone as he could, the Weasley girl who sniffed wetly every few minutes, yours truly (handsome, mysterious, aloof etc) and Potter (who looked as if the trip from his bedroom to the kitchen threatened to cause him to collapse at any second). And that was it. The brilliant fighting force. No, I tell a lie. We were missing McGonagall, who, we were informed, had taken up the post of headmistress at Hogwarts. Good luck to her.

And we were missing the older members of the Weasley brood. Weasley B. (that's Bill for anyone who doesn't keep tabs on the litter) was having a jolly good time in France with his fiancée, attempting to cultivate support from our French allies (whilst dining on exquisite food, seeing the sights of Paris and visiting the museums, no doubt). Weasley C. (Charlie. Crap name, I know) was off in Romania trying to recruit an army of dragons or something. Anyway, both of them had pranced off at the first excuse, saddling their parents with the joint curse of a stroppy Weasley R. and a sniffling Weasley girl. Family ties, eh?

Gratitude flooded me that I was an only child. It was unconventional for pureblood families to only produce one heir; true witches and wizards were rare enough as it was, and should any misfortune befall me (as it had been threatening to since I turned 16) then the mighty Malfoy family would be without an heir. I could feel those ancestors of mine from centuries back all frowning at me as the weight descended onto my shoulders. It was up to me to sire a new heir for the Malfoy family, someone to continue the name, up to me… no, wait. I was disinherited. Cast off. My father had stripped me of the name, claiming that I was not fit to bear it. And once again the full realisation of what he had done hit me, making my knees go weak. He had disinherited me. He would rather see our mighty family end with him then pass its future into my hands. And that showed that he not only despised me, but that he could not believe my children would be worthy to carry the name either. Coldness gripped my heart. Would my children never see Malfoy Manor? Would my children never survey the portraits of our ancestors with the pride that I had felt to see eyes identical to mine glaring proudly from the painted canvas? What would they be without the name? Elegant oddities, with our silver hair and our golden eyes and our high cheekbones but _no name_. And what was I now? Draco NoName. The dragon without its fangs, who had fled to hide beneath the lion's paws. And that lion, with its hanging head and its tired claws and weary jaws, was my only defence against the snake that threatened to crush us both.

_Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_

_I'm sleeping, Dark Lord. But one day I will wake. And you, Cleopatra Fama. You too will feel the wrath of the dragon. _Sitting there, watching through narrow eyes as Weasley picked at his nails, I swore a solemn oath. _She will pay. The bitch will pay._

Daddy Weasley cleared his throat, and one look at his face told me what he would say.

"So far we've been unable to find Fred and George." His voice shook.

"You should let me help you, Dad," Weasley R. burst out. "I could help, but you keep me cooped up here!"

"Ron, we don't want to put you in any danger," Tonks interrupted gently.

"I'm 17," he begged. "I could join the Order. I'm old enough. I can Apparate!"

"No," Lupin said tiredly. "Ron, your brothers have gone missing probably because of their connection to the Order." Or they simply pushed it too far… '_My Little Voldemort'_ floated briefly into my mind. "The last thing we need is to have you involved as well. I'm sorry, but we must ask you to accept this in a mature way." Granger raised her eyes from her lap.

"You're not my parents, and I'm 18, legally an adult. You have no right to ban me from helping you." A frightening look of pure hopelessness darted across Daddy Weasley's face.

"Will you two please try and understand? I'd worry myself sick if you were out there."

"You'd let Harry join if he asked," Weasley R. muttered.

"Ron, right now our priorities are Fred and George and finding them," Lupin intervened again.

"There's still a chance your brothers are alive," Tonks added (Moody snorted). "We need to focus on them."

I'd heard enough and was fast growing impatient. It was obvious no new developments had occurred, and, glancing over, I noticed that Potter was studying the table surface with a depressed air. Did he feel guilty? I wondered. It was just like him to try and take personal responsibility for every blow Voldemort directed this way. And who among the Order of the Phoenix did not notice the burden they carried in sheltering him and me? Which of them could honestly say they did not blame him at all for this misfortune? Earlier this morning Mrs Weasley, more with it than the day before, had burst into tears upon seeing him when he dropped in on his way downstairs. The unspoken blame hovered there in the kitchen, and he must have felt it as strongly as I did. _They're the ones He wants. They're the reason._ As if Voldemort would halt his murderous rampage and settle down to a nice cottage in the country once Potter and I were dead. Still, I noticed a certain chill surrounding him, as if these people who loved him really didn't like him that much at the moment. As for me, well, the icy glares thrown my way had never thawed out.

"But…" Weasley R. began, and I snapped.

"What your father is trying to tell you, Ronald, is that by bothering him at this time you are acting like an irritating six year old."

"Draco…" Lupin interrupted. I ignored him.

"He's worrying awfully about his two sons who are in dire straits at the moment, and you're there, bleating about how life isn't fair and you want to play with the grown ups."

"Malfoy…" Moody warned, but I forged on.

"Could you be any more selfish, Ronald? Anyone would think you _didn't care_."

"That's enough!" Daddy Weasley roared. I jumped, unaccustomed to being bellowed at. Weasley R. had turned white (with anger, with shock?) but his father was flushed furious. "Draco, I think you should leave us now," he said, carefully controlling his tone. Angrily I felt a blush creep across my cheeks (the danger of pale skin), and left, my face burning with righteous anger. To be banished by a Weasley! It was not that I cared; not like I wanted to attend their stupid meeting. But my humiliation at being chastened by someone I had always been taught to despise as inferior showed embarrassingly in my flushed cheeks.

I took the stairs two at a time and slammed angrily into my room. An owl was sitting on my bed. I did a severe double take, recognising the bird.

"_Mercury!_" The Eagle Owl hooted at its name and I nearly collapsed. Somehow I had the presence of mind to shut the door behind me before running forward and doing my best to embrace the bird. "Mercury, oh Mercury. I never thought…" He nibbled my ear and then shifted uneasily in my grasp. Owls are not keen on being hugged. I released him and smiled fondly as he grumpily rearranged his mottled feathers. Through slightly blurry eyes I saw that a letter was tied to his leg, and reached for it with shaky fingers. The Malfoy seal on the back sent tendrils of weakness shooting through me again and I wanted to cry over that cat in the wax, with its serpent collar; wanted to cry and cry and cry. "Mercury, what have you brought me?" He clacked his beak impatiently and I managed a rueful smile. "I don't have anything for you, I'm afraid. You'll have to catch something on your way home." Disgruntled, he flapped to the top of my wardrobe, and I broke the seal on the letter with shaking fingers.

My hands were quivering so much that I would have sliced my fingers if the letter had been written on thin muggle paper. As it was, the soft parchment was forgiving, and I finally managed to ease it out of the envelope. Sitting on the bed, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I unfolded the parchment. My heart ached, as if the words had leapt off the page and wrapped themselves around it. It was his writing. His! Lucius Malfoy's. The man I once called 'Father'. Elegant, flowing, concise, it spread itself evenly across the parchment in the black ink, the rows precise and perfectly spaced. Hurriedly I wiped my eyes again; to have a tear fall and smudge the words beyond recognition would be unbearable! It was hard though, hard to read through blurred eyes the small words that shook as my hands shuddered. Forcing myself to move slowly, I placed the letter on the bed beside me, stood up, walked to the basin in my bathroom, dashed a handful of cold water on my face and returned to the parchment. Picking it up again, I ran my eyes eagerly over the words.

_Draco,_

_It is a risk for me even to communicate with you – the Dark Lord wants you above all others and the punishment for correspondence with a traitor is extreme torture. Be that as it may, you were once my son. I do not know where you are, nor do I want to know. I will say only this: there are several items of yours still at Malfoy Manor. I can not send them to you, so if you would like them you must come and fetch them. If you have a grain of sense in you, you will believe this to be a trap, and I can not give you any assurances it is not except that tomorrow I swear before Salazar Slytherin and every Malfoy that ever breathed that I will observe a truce with you and you will be allowed to enter and leave Malfoy Manor at will. There will never be a repeat of this offer of clemency._

_After that, we will have nothing more to say to each other. My wife loved the boy who was once my son. I can only hope that the man knows when he can trust._

_Yours,_

_Lucius Malfoy._

I sat there, frozen as if petrified by a basilisk, for a long, long time. This man's offer was either extremely generous or extremely devious. For all his protestations that we were nothing to each other now, he still knew me better than any other. _'You were always too soft, Draco. If you want to be a true Malfoy you will have to learn to withhold your emotions and always, always question every man's motives'_. And now that I questioned his motives I was at a loss. If he betrayed me to Voldemort, if this was a trap then that would be simple enough. The knowledge I had of the Order of The Phoenix was not unique: Fred and George would have known similar, but I still would give the Dark Lord a valuable insight into the condition of his enemies. Oh yeah. And he also wanted to kill me in a hundred horrible ways for deceiving him.

But what if this was a genuine truce? And I was inclined to believe in my heart that it was. _'You were always too soft, Draco.'_ But the man I had known, the Lucius Malfoy of my memories would never ever swear by Slytherin and by our ancestors and then break his vows. It was just not done. At times I had believed him to be torn between his duty to his family and to his Lord, but on this one thing I had no doubt. The Malfoy ancestry, the very thing Voldemort professed to be trying to preserve, was sacred. And this man would not break such a vow.

What's more, he was right. There were some things in Malfoy Manor that were mine and mine alone. My clothes, my books to name but a few. Things like my telescope or my cauldron or my chess set could be forsaken. But most of all, there was my cat. Misty. My tabby cat whom I missed so, so much. For the sake of seeing him again, of having him with me, I decided to trust the man who had disinherited me.

Reaching for some clean parchment from my supply, I sharpened a quill, dipped it into the ink and began before I could have second thoughts.

_I will accept your offer and trust you will not disgrace the ancestors you swore by through breaking your word. _

_Draco_

Mercury clicked his beak impatiently as I tied the letter to his leg. I carried him to the window, then paused. My stomach was roiling, my nerves fizzing as if they had been steeped in sherbet. I couldn't wait for the owl to make the journey to the manor and then return again. Letting Mercury hop from my wrist to the headboard of the bed, I reached for my wand. The spell was simple enough; a small piece of magic to send an owl with a message to a designated spot through impersonal Apparation. I muttered the charm to create a portal to the Malfoy Manor compost heaps, grabbed Mercury and flung him through the hole in the air. A second later the black chasm that yawned before me sealed itself, vanishing from human sight, telling me that Mercury had been safely deposited on the other side. He'd be disgruntled by his rough handling, but within minutes Lucius Malfoy would have my reply. I settled down to wait.

It didn't take long. In the intermittent time someone thundered upstairs angrily to the landing above me, and a door slammed. I doubted the great conference had gone well. Then there was a crackling sound, and Mercury appeared, looking distinctly ruffled by his journey. He snapped at me as I reached eagerly for the letter; his beak drew bright blood and I sucked my fingers ruefully. The next time his beak went for me I stuffed a sock in it, and took advantage of his temporary confusion to snatch the letter. Unfolded, it was short and brief.

_Apparate here. Disguise yourself._

Disguise myself? The answer sprung instantly to mind, but my stomach objected violently at the thought of how. _I will do it,_ I told myself sternly. _I am strong enough._ Grabbing Potter's leather jacket (I'd worn it so much now … surely it was mine?), I shut Mercury in my bathroom to allow him time to rest (and opened the bathroom window should he wish to leave), then used my wand to lock and seal the bedroom door behind me. No one was to be seen, although a babble of voices came from the kitchen, and I glided quietly through the hallway, trying hard not to waken the portrait behind the fraying curtains. I eased the front door open a crack and slid through, stepping out into the September sunlight which bathed the quiet street. A gentle breeze caressed my face, wrapping me in the scent of mown grass, which was still strong enough to mask the reek of the muggle cars that pervaded London. I set out briskly, making for the park and playground that was nearby. My eyes flicked left, right, left, ahead and I struggled to prevent myself from turning every few seconds to glance behind. It wasn't only the Deatheaters that were after me; the Aurors would still be hunting me too, and I fancied a term in Azkaban even less than I did a reunion with my old comrades in arms.

I reached the park without incident, and surveyed it. Disappointing; a gaggle of harried looking mothers and giggling children. Turning on my heel, I crossed the street, rounded a few corners and came to the muggle tube station. There were more people here: two ticket inspectors, several other specimens… but standing on the open platform were my targets. There were four of them: youngish men standing apart, two of them absorbed in muggle handheld gadgets and the other two staring vacantly into space as they waited for their train to whisk them away. I sized them up, then made a beeline for one who was staring into space. I walked straight up to him and smiled harmlessly.

"Hey, you don't happen to have the time do you?" He waved at the big platform clock.

"Says right there." I squinted.

"Look, I'm really sorry, but I forgot my glasses today."

"It's four thirty." I did a double take.

"Are you sure?" Beginning to lose his patience with me, he lifted his left wrist and glanced at his watch.

"Yes. Four thirty." I gripped his arm for a second, turning the watch face towards me, then released him and smiled.

"Thank you very much." I turned and walked away, wiping my hand on my jacket. But not before I had transferred the hairs I lifted off his sleeve into my pocket.

Polyjuice potion. Believe me; you should always have a few vials with you. And whilst I had been stuck in Grimwauld Place these past weeks I had sneaked the ingredients for it into my bathroom and brewed it. It had been done surreptitiously (I highly doubted Lupin or Moody would have approved of the Deatheater secretly making potions), but I had made about a pint of the potion, and had then deposited it in a number of vials I had lifted from bins, bathroom cupboards and bedside tables. Wealsey R's room had been a horror to raid; stinking heap of clothes had rendered the journey across his floor treacherous, and various bottles had cascaded out of his bathroom cupboard when it was opened. Potter had remained largely in his room, so I'd had little chance to investigate its resources, but Granger's had been a veritable gold mine of ingredients (some of which had not smelt completely legal), yielding most of what I had needed. The Weasley parents' joint bathroom had surrendered a number of dusty bottles and vials, their unused cosmetic contents sliding in an oily way down the plughole when I emptied them in the sink. Twp such vials nestled in my jean pocket, now full of Polyjuice potion. It was the work of a second to add the hairs to them, and the potion fizzed, turning an unexpectedly pretty cerulean colour.

Dinner was a strained affair that night. Granger was sulking as she had been forced to cook it all, with Mummy Weasley out of action, Potter had been unable to face a second expedition downstairs and was eating in his room and Weasley R. glowered at his chops as if they had done him a severe injustice at some time. The Weasley girl picked moodily at her food and the only 'adult' to mind this little hoard of moody children was Lupin, who wolfed his chops down with the appetite of a… well, with the hunger of a man who feels the full moon approaching with its promise of blood.

I tossed and turned that night, fretting about the next day. I had resolved not to tell anyone I was going, thinking that if it were a trap then it'd be better if I appeared to disappear completely than if people were able to sit there in the future, shaking their heads and saying 'well, we _all_ knew it was a trap'. I am very proud, and if I was going to die I didn't want to look foolish. But stronger than that was the fear that ran cold shivers through me, as I huddled beneath the blanket. Could I trust him, this man who had cast me off? Would his fierce pride, a pride that rivalled mine, have forgiven the slight I had dealt him yet? Or would he still bear a grudge because my fall from grace had spawned his further loss of favour with the Dark Lord? Round and round and round the argument rattled through my head. The only certain thing I had was that I'd said I would go. I could break my word of course, but _I'd said_.

And that mattered.

Which is why I set out in the brisk early morning chill the next day, with cloudless skies overhead and the air so cold and crisp you felt it could snap between your fingers. A taste of the cold that was coming: the afternoon sunshine in September may have spoken of summer, but the morning air warned of winter. I slunk down the quiet street, my nerves jittering as if I'd drunken five cups of black coffee, and stepped into a dark alley. In there I pulled out my first vial of Polyjuice potion, removed the stopper and drank the mixture down. It slid over my tongue, the taste unusual (as always) and indefinable. The changes were swift; my silvery hair turned a common shade of brown, my eyes lost their harsh predatory gold and softened to a gentle hazel, and I bulked up, muscles piling onto my slender build. I had already jinxed my clothes to stretch with my growth, and my shirt expanded dramatically as my chest developed. I was naturally sinewy, and possessed strength which people never expected from my slim frame, but the man I'd chosen had muscle and the difference was amazing. Gone was the grace, the Malfoy ability to flow through the air. Replacing it was a strange feeling; I could settle into my feet and shift my weight so that I stood in a permanent 'you looking at me?' stance. It was damned difficult not to swagger in an 'I will kick your arse if you piss me off' way. It was a funny feeling, and I wasn't sure I wanted to relax into it, so I Apparated quickly before I grew too comfortable in my new body.

I landed in the Malfoy compost heaps and overbalanced instantly as my new weight caught up with me.

"Aaargh!"

And that is how I ended up crossing the immaculate lawns to Malfoy Manor smelling ever so slightly earthy, with a brown stain on my jeans. Was this the sort of entrance I had hoped to achieve? Noooo. The House Elves opened the back door (the tradesman's entrance!) when I knocked, and bowed deferentially, not recognising me in the least.

"I have an appointment with your master," I announced. I was ushered in, and oh, did it feel strange to be treated as a guest in one's own home! Only it was not my home… but still, I had to fight the urge to turn towards the study before they did, had to struggle to pretend that I could not have found my way blindfolded. The Elf who was leading me took me up the stairs to _his_ study and knocked on the closed door.

"Enter." His voice shook me, and I grew angry with myself. _Develop some control Draco, or he'll simply despise you!_ I could only imagine the contempt he'd hold me in if I collapsed into tears in front of him.

The House Elf scuttled in and muttered something in a low voice. The reply rolled through the space between the half open door and the door frame to me, and I stood up straighter. _Pull yourself together!_ The Elf reappeared a second later and gestured for me to go in. I entered the familiar room, focusing on my surroundings, the stuccoed frieze where the walls met the ceiling, the book shelves, anything but the figure in front of me. The Elf shut the door behind me.

"That form you have chosen is, of course, designed to impose," he said coldly. "How very crude and predictable of you." I lifted my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze, as he regarded me with a gaze of molten silver. I kept my own eyes steady.

"Mr Malfoy. I have business here."

"You do indeed. I trust you can find your own room? I can have an Elf conduct you there if you wish."

"Thank you Mr Malfoy; that will not be necessary." I made my voice match his; impersonal, distant. Not bored, but lacking in any warmth, any acknowledgement of our shared past. We could as well have met yesterday. He nodded to me, the movement sending his silvery hair rippling across his shoulders. Now that I studied him closer I could see the grey shadows under his eyes, could see that he was thinner than before, and something very like guilt gnawed at me. He had suffered for my actions. But I kept my features impassive and returned his nod, then turned and left the room.

As I walked through the familiar corridors a memory sprang to the front of my mind, unbidden. A memory of a sunny afternoon in a conservatory, when I had clutched a man as if he could save me.

"_Promise me."  
_"_Hmm?"  
_"_Promise me…"  
_"_Yes?"  
_"_Promise me you will not forget me."_

I walked to my room, resolving to swallow all emotion. And it worked, for a while. I packed clothes into a suitcase with a professional detachment, packed a photo album without opening it to see my beautiful mother dazzle me from the pages, and rationally chose the books I thought I'd need. I left my pots of cosmetics untouched; living it rough (so to speak) had broken my addiction to hair gel and emery boards. My true appearance (as opposed to the grimy muggle form that I currently wore) was still something to be proud of, but it had changed: I no longer looked like a flawless model who had stepped straight out of a muggle magazine. Instead my silvery hair was generally ruffled, my cheeks tinged with life and my appearance more of the casual-yet-damn-beautiful look. Beauty. That was my heritage, and something which could not be taken away from me by anyone.

As I placed the last of the books in my second bag there was a patter in the corridor, and then a paw slid through the gap, forcing the door open. Misty trotted in, and mewed when he saw me. He didn't recognise me, of course, but I wanted to cry all the same.

"Misty! Misty boy. Come here, Misty. Come here." I whistled for him, holding my fingers above the bed, and he sprang up to meet them, purring with the joy of accepting attention from anyone. I wondered if he'd been starved of affection in my absence and ran my hands through his fur, rubbing his ears, finding the spot under his chin that made him close his eyes in bliss. "You're coming with me," I told him. I stroked him for at least half an hour, allowing him to settle down, not noticing the time fly. I didn't notice as my fingers grew slimmer, more tapered, and didn't notice as I shrunk, as I grew more comfortable in my own skin.

"Draco…" I glanced up at my name guiltily and saw him standing there. Pain entered his eyes, and I wondered why, then realised that the sun behind me was shining through my hair, bequeathing the edges of my pale skin with a brilliance, outlining my form in a golden halo of light. This man was not entirely emotionless at the sight of his son before him, it seemed, but he composed himself swiftly, reconfiguring the blank mask that was his face.

"Do not worry, I will not stay much longer," I said quietly.

"Draco," he repeated huskily, then drew himself up again. "You have the means to disguise yourself again, I presume."

"Yes."

"Then, you must leave soon." He paused, hesitating, then said softly. "Do you really share a house with _him?_" The distaste in his voice stung me.

"How do you know where I live?"

"Your Weasley friends have been most… informative," he replied. "The Dark Lord has learnt much from them." My heart skipped a beat, and I struggled to remain calm.

"They are no friends of mine." He laughed slightly.

"Then you have not lost your senses completely, as I feared." A momentary sadness crossed his face, but it was only fleeting and he composed himself quickly. His fingers reached to his hair subconsciously, braiding it as they always did when he was thinking. "Have you heard from your aunt?"

"That is not a question I choose to answer," I replied, inside wondering desperately if this meant that she was alive, or if he simply didn't know whether she was dead or not.

"Don't go looking for her," he said softly. "Don't go to Erebos, Draco. There is nothing there but death and pain." This was not news to me, but I was surprised he was mentioning it. I did not reply. He continued. "It is heavily shielded anyway. You will not find it, nor will any Auror … no matter what they were searching for." And in that second I understood.

The twins were at Erebos.

Why was he telling me? Did it matter? This was my way to proving once and for to the Weasley brood and anyone else who doubted all that I had allied myself with the Order, that I was not betraying them. And I thought of a small figure, sitting alone in a bed, with red hair falling untidily over her shoulders, staring gauntly into the abyss. If I could bring peace… well then, maybe I would be less of a bad person.

"You must leave now," he said abruptly. "Disguise yourself and _go_. Don't ever return." He glanced at Misty, curled up and purring somnolently. "Take him. Or don't. I care neither way." On an impulse I started towards him and he flinched away. "_Get away! _You are a danger to me. The Dark Lord wants you as much as he wants the boy whose bed you have climbed into, Draco." I flinched at the implication, spat out in such a sudden bitter tone.

"I barely deign to reply to that remark. It seems your respect for me is completely gone. We truly have nothing more to say to each other." I shrunk the two suitcases with the same spell I had used to shrink Potter over a month ago, and placed them in my pocket. I pulled out the second vial of Polyjuice potion, flicked the stopper and swallowed it in one gulp. The blonde haired man's eyes did not even flicker as his biological son transformed into the stranger I had become to him. Then I picked up Misty, who wriggled in protest, and walked past him, out of the room. Down the stairs. Out, through the back door, held open by an obsequious Elf, and then across the lawns. I stopped on the green grass and turned. Malfoy Manor. The house I would never see again. And through the glass of my bedroom window I made out a pale face, lined with silver hair, watching me go.

* * *


	17. The twins

Disclaimer: J.K's, not mine  


* * *

The twins

Misty didn't enjoy the Apparating back at all, and made a determined bid for freedom the second we arrived in the alley I had set out from. I scrabbled desperately to hold onto him as he flowed with feline grace from my grip and leapt onto the street. He instantly belted out of the alley, confused, lost and not at all sure he liked the strange man who had brought him here. I raced after him, cursing under my breath. Alarm spread through me as I ran; I couldn't risk using magic to catch him in broad daylight. He dashed out into the road, a tabby blur, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the car coming, the horn screaming in my ears, saw him freeze in horror. He'd never seen a car before, and it was bearing down on him, a ton of metal clad death.

"No!" I screamed in a voice that was not my own, my hand scrabbling for my wand. In a second I had hauled it out and pointed it as the car swerved desperately. "_Impedimenta_!" The car froze, stopping instantly, the muggle inside pale and wide eyed. I stuffed my wand away and closed in carefully on Misty, not wanting to spook him. When I picked him up he was trembling. I whispered soothing words to him as I walked towards the car. Slowly the driver's door swung open, and a man stepped shakily out. I forced a smile.

"Thank God you hit the brakes in time!" He reached out and touched the bonnet for support as his legs threatened to give way.

"I don't understand… I just stopped." I rearranged my grip on Misty in case he should try to escape again, but he had obviously had enough adventure today and cuddled closer to me.

"Look, I'm sorry my cat gave you a scare. Still, no harm done, eh?" He nodded and I held out my hand. He took it tentatively.

"Yeah, sure…"

"Good good," I said. "Look, I'd love to stay and chat, but I really have to go home now." He nodded again, dazedly, and I pulled my wand out.

"What's that stick for?"

"Just before I go, sir. For your own good."

"What?"

"_Obliviate_."

I watched as he turned and mechanically walked into the car, started it up and drove on. To my left, in the alley I'd dashed from, I thought I saw a sudden movement. I turned my head, catching a glimpse of something… dark hair? Perhaps a scarf. I couldn't be sure. When I crossed the road back to the alley it was empty, the dead end staring blankly at me. Frowning, I rubbed Misty behind his ears and he started purring, obviously recovering fast from his fright. I left the alley cautiously, still glancing behind me every now and then, and crossed to in front of Grimwauld Place. Then stopped. I still had about half an hour of Polyjuice time left, and if I walked in looking like I did I'd probably be cursed before I had a chance to open my mouth to explain. Sighing, I walked moodily back to the alley, which was still empty, and sat down on the filthy floor, with Misty on my lap. I'd already worked him into the sort of mood where he'd rather stay and be caressed than leave, so he settled down happily, his purr vibrating around the alley as the sunlight shafted in on us from above. I pursed my lips, trying to clarify what I had seen. A shadowy figure… it had caught my eye because it was so dark, not a muggle in jeans and a coat but someone dressed entirely in dark clothing. Or had my eyes been playing tricks on me? Was I growing too paranoid? I glanced around the alley, looking for clues that would confirm the presence of my stalker, but the grimy walls and floor of the alley mocked me with their bareness. Still, I was sure there'd been something there.

Again Misty didn't notice as the potion wore off. When I'd changed fully back to Draco Malfoy I leapt up, grabbing him as he made a startled attempt to leap away, anxious to share my news. _The twins are at Erebos, the twins at Erebos._ Why was Voldemort holding them there, amongst the ruins and rubble? Because of its remoteness? Why had my father told me? Were they still alive? The answers didn't matter, the questions were irrelevant. All that mattered was that I knew where they were. The possibility that I was wrong never even occurred to me as I bounded up the steps to Grimwauld Place and let myself in. I slammed the door open and the curtains on the portrait in the hallway blew back. The ghastly woman in it opened her mouth to scream, but I drew my wand in time.

"_Silencio!_" She opened and closed her mouth a few more times, looking furious, but no words came out. I smiled smugly. "Ha! That's shut you up, you old bat." Her accusing gaze followed me as I made my way into the kitchen, still holding Misty.

The kitchen was empty.

So was the downstairs sitting room.

So was Potter's bedroom.

The paranoid prickly feeling was returning as I set Misty free in my room, feeling very uneasy. Where was everyone? Why wasn't Potter reclining in bed? Why wasn't the kitchen overflowing with red-haired Weasleys? I shut the door on Misty and walked up to Weasley R's room. A knock on the door received no reply. Two knocks.

"Come in," a grumpy voice said. I opened the door and walked in. He was lying on the unmade bed, making a shoe scoot around the piles of clothes on his floor with his wand. He glanced up and instantly frowned. "Get out." I raised my hands.

"Believe me, Weaselby, I'm here as a last resort." He lost concentration, and the shoe ploughed into the wall. I sniggered and he flushed.

"What do you want, ferret boy?" Fighting the urge to utter a sharp retort, I forced a neutral tone of voice.

"Where is everyone?"

"The grown ups are out. What's it to you?"

"I need to talk to your father now," I said softly. "I know where your brothers are." He leapt up instantly, eyes blazing.

"I knew it. I knew it!" Sighing, I raised my hands.

"Weasley, I've only just found out. If I'd known sooner I would have said, believe me."

"I don't," he hissed. "You knew all along, didn't you, _Deatheater_?"

"Insult me, and there's a high chance I won't bother telling you where to find them." He flung out an accusatory arm, pointing at me.

"Then their blood is on your hands!"

"So dramatic," I sneered. "If you truly cared you'd best get your father here as soon as possible so that I can tell him where to find his sons." He hesitated for a minute, fighting an inner battle. I groaned. "Please, _Ron_. Trust me this once?" He delayed a second longer, then reached over to his bedside table and pulled the drawer open. He took out a small green beetle, shiny and iridescent.

"My dad gave this to me. He's got its mate. When I need him I just press its back and he'll know." So saying, he touched the beautiful wing casing gently and the beetle responded by unfolding like a flower, opening its wings and beating them, a buzzing blur, too fast for the human eye to see.

Within seconds I heard a whooshing sound and Daddy Weasley shot out the fireplace, rolling across the carpet. He straightened up, instantly alert, wand in hand.

"Ron, what is it? Are you all right?"

"Malfoy says he knows where they are," Weasley said bluntly. Daddy Weasley did a double take.

"Is this true, Draco?" he asked. I ignored the use of my name.

"First, where's Potter?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Where's Potter?"

"If he's not in bed then I don't know," Daddy Weasley snapped. "Malfoy, where are my sons?" Last minute doubts let themselves be known, but I ignored them. "Please," he begged, seeing the doubts flickering in my eyes. "I don't care how you know, but tell me where my boys are."

"They're at Erebos," I whispered.

* * *

The great iron gates of Erebos stood as proud as they ever had, the outer walls towering high on the otherwise deserted moors. There weren't even any of the Dartmoor ponies in sight, and I could have done with seeing their friendly faces. The wind wailed past us across the barren plain, tearing at my jacket and causing my shirt to flap. I wondered where Potter was. We'd been unable to find him, and so he had not joined the expedition. Alongside me stood Weasley R. (who had whined his way into coming), the Weasley girl, their father, Tonks and Lupin. Moody and the other Auror were too busy to come and Granger was missing as well as Potter. Seven of us. And the Dark Lord could quite possibly be waiting for us. I felt the adrenaline pumping through my body, making me light-headed. 

Under the crisp blue sky I walked up to those familiar gates and gently laid my hands on them. Beyond them I could see the ruins of Uncle Rudolphus' pyre. And then… a shack of some sort. It had not been there the last time we visited, and my heart quickened. My sweaty palms slipped on the metal as I whispered Aunt Bellatrix's password.

"All is dust." _Dust, _the wind repeated. _Dust_. _Not this time_, I prayed. _Don't let us arrive to death here again_. Uncle Rudolphus' empty face and dead eyes rose in my mind and I felt ill as the gates opened in front of me.

"Quietly and slowly," Daddy Weasley warned. "Ron, Ginny, Malfoy, you go behind me." We slid up the drive together, wands drawn, the Auror and the werewolf on either side of Daddy Weasley. Moving silently, we made our way up the driveway, past lawns that were no longer immaculate after having been abandoned for over a month, until we reached the burned remains of the funeral pyre. A gust of wind blew debris from the long dead fire into my face and I fought the urge to sneeze.

"In the house," the Weasley girl whispered.

"You three stay here," Lupin murmured. "Arthur, on my right. Tonks, my left."

"I've got you covered," she replied, her eyes blending from green to a steely blue. We remained, huddling behind the skeleton of the pyre as the three adults advanced cautiously on the hut. Daddy Weasley and Tonks each stood on either side of the rough door, made from what looked like a sheet of corrugated iron. I frowned as I surveyed the shack. It was built out of the sort of rough materials we had left behind after our search for my mother and Bellatric; corrugated sheets of metal, dirty glass, bricks. We had not vanished the entirety of the rubble of Erebos, and what was left had been glued together with spells into this shed. It was windowless, but light would have entered through the holes between the sheeting and the doorframe. The Dark Lord obviously hadn't intended to spend much time here. My heart suddenly skipped a beat as a thought occurred to me. Would we find evidence of Bellatrix's work here, at the sight of her desecrated home?

With Daddy Weasley and Tonks in position, Lupin advanced on the door cautiously, listened for a minute, and then kicked it down. All three of the adults leapt into the shack, wands raised.

"Don't move!" Tonks yelled.

"Stay where you are!" Daddy Weasley bawled. There was a pause, a moment of silence, and then Lupin's voice wafted to us.

"Arthur, Voldemort's long gone." Tonks' voice followed.

"Oh God, Arthur. I'm so sorry." And then… an inhuman howl. A scream of anger and despair and terror. We all jumped, and Weasley R. leapt up.

"What's going on there?" He started to run forward, but I grabbed his jacket sleeve and hauled him back.

"Wait until they call you."

"Let go of me!" he yelled, struggling to break free. As I fought to restrain him the Weasley girl raced past me, heading for the hut.

"Get back here you!" I shouted after her. She ignored me and ran to the door, almost colliding with Daddy Weasley, who was emerging from the dark interior. His face was a terrifying shade of scarlet, and his eyes blazed murder.

"Where's that slimy son of a Deatheater? I'll kill him!" he bawled, eyes too clouded with tears to see me immediately. Weasley R. instantly stopped struggling, turning to me in revulsion.

"What did you _do_?" he snarled. I released him, backing away.

"I didn't… I never…"

"Malfoy!" Daddy Weasley had finally spied me, and he started towards me, his wand drawn. I fell back, frightened, tripping on the uneven lawn, and landed on the grass, my foot twisting sharply beneath me. I stifled a cry of pain. Weasley R. drew away from me as his father advanced, wand pointing at me.

"Arthur! Stop!" a voice cried. Daddy Weasley ignored it.

"I'll kill you!" he howled, his voice choked with pain. "I'll kill you! _Avada Kadavra!_" My heart nearly stopped as death sped towards me, death a deadly green that I saw in my dreams every night. I rolled desperately aside, and the spell buried itself in the turf, scorching the grass where I had been. The Weasley girl screamed in horror.

"Dad! Don't-" Weasley R. shouted. Still the man advanced, and I scrabbled backwards, on my hands and heels, an awkward, ungainly movement, dragging my aching foot.

"Arthur! NO!" Tonks dashed out of the hut and grabbed Daddy Weasley, wrestling with him. He threw her off, turning towards me again, but her intervention had bought me the time I needed to draw my wand. The Unforgiveables leapt to mind, bringing with them a desire to hurt, to kill this man who had tried to murder me, but I thrust them aside.

"_Stupefy!_" Amazingly my aim was still good enough from this position, and the spell hit his chest. He instantly buckled and collapsed. Lupin had run out of the shack by now and he raced to Daddy Weasley's side, checking his pulse. Weasley R. seemed to have frozen immobile, whilst Tonks dashed past him towards me, holding out her hand. I ignored it, standing up on my own, testing my weight on my foot and wincing as pain shot through it.

"Draco, are you all right?" she asked.

"Let's see," I began bitterly. "I think I sprained my ankle, one of the 'good guys' just tried to murder me, and there's mud on my jeans, but apart from that, yeah I'm fine." She had the grace to look embarrassed.

"I apologise for his behaviour. It's just, oh Draco… you're going to need to see this."

"See what? What's happened?"

Behind her back the Weasley girl slipped into the hut. A second later I heard her scream, a shrill penetrating sound. She screamed and screamed and screamed, even when Lupin carried her out, scooping her up like a doll and depositing her by the pyre. She curled up on the ground, crying and whimpering, and Weasley R. crouched down by her side.

"Ginny?" he began uncertainly. "Ginny… shh, Ginny. Come on, you've got to stop crying. Ginny, please." The helplessness in his voice was pitiful, as she rocked, oblivious to the world around. Eventually he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

Tonks left me and squatted down beside them, but Lupin came and took my arm and led me to the hut.

"I don't want to see," I protested, limping. His grip was like iron, uncompromising.

"Draco, you need to see this. It involves you." We walked through the door into semi-darkness, and my stomach pitched. The smell of human distress hit me, the smell of sweat and blood but most of all the residue of horrific, all-consuming terror resonated in the air we breathed. In the gloom I could make out two forms on the floor, strewn like dolls thrown down carelessly by a bored child. Lupin took my chin and guided my eyes to the far wall.

"_Lumos_," he whispered, and the light that emanated from the wand tip exposed the writing to me. Writing. One the far wall. Not written in blood, as I thought at first glance, but scorched onto the makeshift wall. Six words, and I knew that whilst Voldemort didn't usually go in for such dramatics, this message was from him. The black words burned themselves into my soul, and I felt my heart race as I was branded with them.

_THIS IS JUST A TASTER, TRAITOR._

"It's my fault," I whispered. Lupin shook his head tiredly.

"Draco, Voldemort is obviously attempting to turn us against you, to make us push you away." He reached out for my hand and spoke gently. "This is _not_ your fault. You could not have foreseen it; you could not have prevented it. And thanks to you we can… bury them." The pain in his voice was unbearable. I turned away from the words, turned away from the wall, and fell to my knees. Reaching out, I lifted the limp wrist of the twin closest to me and pressed his knuckles to my forehead.

"I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry." I felt like crying. "I'm sorry you were hurt. I'm sorry I couldn't save you." _I'm sorry we found you. I'm sorry we'll know what he did to you._ I held his wrist, and then… I felt it. Fluttering beneath my fingertips. A pulse. A pulse! "He's alive," I breathed. "Lupin! He's alive!"

"What?" Lupin cried. He knelt down and grabbed the slack wrist, searching for the pulse, and then breathed out deeply. "He's alive!" He reached down and gripped the twin's face, lifting the head. "Hold on! Can you hear me? Hold on!"


	18. Merciful forgetfulness

A/N - here it is! Finally, finally! Apologies for lateness - the first draft was not very good and then I've been really busy with revision (as my first exam is in three weeks!). Anyways, reviews are very welcome, as they help elleviate my termianl exam depression. So be nice. Tell me what you think. Let me know you guys are reading this, please?

* * *

Merciful forgetfulness  


The living twin was whisked to St Mungo's hospital as fast as possible. Needless to say, I wasn't allowed to accompany him. All the Weasleys were evacuated from Grimwauld Place on the double, and sent to his bedside, where I'm sure they drove the healers to the brink of insanity. Well, I say all of the Weasleys. I don't know what they did with the other twin… our hopes rocketed when I discovered the one to be alive, but no amount of wishful praying or pleading could encourage a spark of life to manifest itself in the other. Mrs Weasley had been taken with her family to the hospital, although whether she was with them or in a ward herself I didn't know. Grimwauld Place felt strangely empty, now that the red-haired brood was gone. Misty squeaked indignantly when I returned, furious at being locked up. I took him downstairs to the dim drawing room and selected one of the books from the book cases lining the walls of the room. I doubted that anyone else apart from Granger had even touched these volumes, but once you blew the dust away there was a treasure trove of books on the Dark Arts just waiting to be read. I settled into the armchair, Misty on my lap, and opened the tome.

I was halfway through a paragraph on a vile family of ghouls which had evolved especially long, double-jointed fingers to aid the strangulation of their victims when a pair of hands closed over my eyes. I yelped, startling Misty, and leapt up, spilling him from my lap. He gave an indignant hiss as he landed on the floor and a voice behind me laughed.

"You aren't half nervy, Malfoy." I spun around, angry.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me then, Potter!" He laughed again and my heart skipped to see the healthy colour in his cheeks.

"But, Draco…it's so much _fun_ to see you lose your composure."

"You startled Misty," I grumbled. He raised an eyebrow.

"Misty?"

"My cat," I explained. I made kitty-calling noises and Misty emerged, eyeing Potter disdainfully. I sniggered. "You'll have to forgive him. He's only met purebloods before."

"Really?" Potter asked, crouching down and holding out his fingers. Misty gave them a cursory sniff, curled his lip and slunk over to me. "Agreeable as his master, I see. Why is he here?"

"He'll be living with me from now on," I said, reaching down and scooping him up. His purr vibrated against my chest as I rubbed around his ears. Potter slumped down on the sofa and I sat opposite him, Misty pooling into a tabby puddle on my lap. "Why are you so cheerful then?" He smiled roguishly.

"Guess what I did." I sighed.

"I despise guessing games. It's never worth the wait." He leant forward, as if including me in a secret.

"I put on my invisibility cloak and got my firebolt and flew above the whole of London!" I smiled condescendingly.

"Well, that only proves what I already knew: you're an irresponsible idiot who likes nothing more than running off without a word to anyone and playing with death." His hurt expression spurred me on. "And what if Voldemort caught you? Would we have known where you were? If you lived?" A sulky pout tugged the corners of his mouth and I laughed briefly, then grew serious again. "Whilst you were out playing tag with pigeons we found the twins." A mass of emotions – hope, fear, surprise – all flashed over his face.

"And?"

"One's definitely dead. The other's sort of alive." His face fell and he shook slightly.

"_Sort of_?"

"It's doubtful whether he will remain that way."

"Oh."

"Everyone's at St Mungo's," I added helpfully. "You could go and be full of solidarity…" He laughed harshly.

"No I can't. The Ministry's put a price on my head." I gaped.

"You what now?"

"That's right. I come to you as a fellow wanted criminal. In my absence I was charged with treason through conspiracy to disturb the peace, sheltering a wanted criminal and obstructing and perverting the course of justice."

"How is that treasonable? You haven't made a direct threat on the Ministry." He snorted.

"Draco, my very existence is perceived as a direct threat to the Ministry."

"There are actually Aurors out there looking for you?"

"Yes. I can't go out into public."

"How?" I asked incredulously. "What idiot did this?" He smiled poisonously.

"The motion was proposed to the Wizengamot by none other than its new Chief Warlock (or witch or whatever they call her because she's a woman). The person they chose to replace Dumbledore."

"Name?"

"Our very own Dolores Umbridge."

"Ah."

"Indeed." He shrugged. "They couldn't refuse her. The opinion of the Wizengamot barely counts now. Its agreement is perfunctory. Ever since Scrimgeour was voted emergency powers he's been running the Ministry as his own private Dictatorship." His voice dripped with scorn. I blinked, surprised. I'd been out of touch from the real world for too long.

"You know…. when it was confirmed that Voldemort had returned… with the support you had…it could at one time have been you running this country, Potter."

"I do not regret passing up on that opportunity," Potter replied gravely. I stroked Misty and he responded by rolling onto his back sleepily, inviting a belly rub. "I saw her, you know," Potter said softly. I frowned.

"Who? Umbridge?"

"No. I was hovering above the Ministry and this woman came out. She was like Rita Skeeter – talking to a pen which was writing her words on a piece of parchment that floated after her. It had to be her. Cleopatra Fama. The doormen were _afraid_ of her."

"What does she look like?" I asked, intrigued. If I was going to take my revenge on her I'd need to know as much as I could. He considered.

"Youngish. I mean, older than us but around early twenties or something. Attractive. She dresses well. Good figure. Blonde." Unbidden the memory of the golden hair I had picked off Weasley's jacket flashed into my mind.

"And what has she to say about you being outlawed?"

"Oh, the usual. The paper's in Hermione's room, although it's not worth reading really. Just says how you've corrupted my mind and hopefully I'll come to my senses and do the right thing." I shifted slightly nervously.

"I can't imagine that happening." He grinned mischievously.

"Neither can I. Anyway, Umbridge only proposed that motion because she wants to see me in Azkaban. Scrimgeour is no longer interested in my co-operation. Just as well, as he was never going to get it."

A crackling of green flames in the fireplace made us both jump and look up, and Tonks spun into being. She looked breathless, but was smiling.

"Harry! There you are! It's George. The healers say he's going to make it!"

"Is he awake?" I asked. She started, as if she hadn't noticed me there before.

"No, sleeping. But it's real sleep, not that terrible half-dead state he was in."

"And Fred?" Potter whispered. Her face froze slightly.

"Fred… was already dead when we got there. They couldn't do anything for him." Potter nodded.

"Poor George. Poor Ron."

"Poor all of them," she replied. "I can't think how this is going to affect them." _I can_, I thought, and for just a second my mother's face floated before my eyes, and her scent wavered in the air. Potter studied me intently.

"Draco? Are you all right?" I looked up, and the movement of my head shook the tear out of my eye so that it splattered on my cheek. I wiped it away impatiently.

"Fine. There was something in my eye. This place is so dusty!"

"There used to be a House Elf, but he's gone now," Tonks said musingly. "His name was Kreacher. If anything it's got slightly better since then."

"What happened to him?" I asked, curious. Potter looked away.

"He hanged himself with a pair of his old mistress's stockings," she said distastefully. "Couldn't stand having Harry as a master."

"Are you really that bad?" I joked, but he didn't reply. Curious, I tested his mind defences and was surprised to find them rock solid. He was putting everything into shielding his thoughts. Slowly he turned to face me, and as our eyes met I wondered if I was the only House Elf killer in the room.

Potter stood up abruptly.

"I'm tired. I think I'll go up for a nap." Tonks nodded.

"The others are staying at the hospital tonight, so you two have the house to yourselves. I think they're actually releasing George tomorrow. He's coming to stay here for a while."

* * *

I slept badly that night. Voldemort stalked through the fog of my nightmares, trailing my mother on a long chain, which he'd rattle whenever she tried to stop and sit down. She was crying and I wanted to reach out to her, but iron bars blocked my way and I could only watch helplessly as he stalked on, trailing her in his wake. The fog swirled and I felt the coldness of Dementor breath and dark shapes flew around me as I fell to my knees, the cold pushing me down. The voices filled my head… the voices that always came when I was near the Dementors. My Father's voice, cold, disapproving. 

"Why can't you be more?" And Voldemort, sounding sorrowful as he tortured me.

"You have failed me…" Aunt Bellatrix chimed in.

"Such a disappointment…" And Snape angry, bitter.

"Never speak to me of what happened that night." Their words hammered around and around my head and I wept, feeling smaller and smaller, falling into eternity.

"Weak…disgrace…fool…failure. Failure."

"I'll do better," I whispered. "I'll do better my lord. I promise. I, I can make it right."

"You can not redeem yourself," he told me. "I have no further use for you." And my fragile hope shattered. How long would I live now? I was useless, useless. Condemned to crawl into a hole and die. I clenched my fists and then the fog wrapped around me, enveloping me, choking me.

I woke up, crying, the blanket twisted tightly across my body, my hands scrabbling at the sheets.

Luckily the others were all too absorbed with George the following morning, so none of them commented on the bags under my eyes. They all arrived about midmorning, with George asleep in a wheelchair and Mummy Weasley half supported by her husband. She looked like she'd been crying a lot, her face sagging at the edges, as if she'd lost the will power to even hold an expression. Daddy Weasley escorted her upstairs, whilst Ron, Ginny, Hermione and Potter held hands and watched fearfully as Lupin levitated George's wheelchair up the stairs and into his room. None of the hospital lot had had an ounce of sleep the night before, so once it was confirmed that George would not wake up for a while they all trudged off to bed, leaving me and Potter and Daddy Weasley downstairs. I kept a wary eye on Daddy Weasley, just in case he should attempt to curse me again.

"How is Mrs Weasley?" Potter asked tentatively. Daddy Weasley sighed and ran his hand through his thinning hair.

"She keeps asking where Fred is," he said tiredly. "I can't bring myself to tell her he's…" He fell into silence.

"You look exhausted," Potter said softly. "You should get some sleep." He nodded.

"I'll go up. If George wakes up…"

"We'll wake you immediately," Potter soothed, gently propelling Daddy Weasley in the direction of the stairs. "But sleep now." Wearily he climbed the stairs, Potter watching until he was out of sight.

I killed time by playing with Misty. After an hour of chasing string he had worn himself out and collapsed in a heap on the carpet, his sides heaving. I laughed, lying down beside him and rubbing his ruff. Potter's footfall made me glance up, and he sat on the carpet beside me.

"Draco, there's something I need to ask you." I yawned and stretched luxuriously.

"What might that be?" He pulled off the sweatband, baring the Dark Mark on his wrist.

"Does yours hurt?" Frowning, I shook my head.

"No."

"Never?"

"Never. I mean, it did the first few months but after that nothing. Why? Does yours?"

"All the time," he whispered. I shrugged.

"Hardly surprising. What you have there is a direct link to Lord Voldemort." He smiled.

"My personal hotline to his mightiness?"

"If you wish. But contact with him causes you pain from what I've heard; and since you're wearing his calling card it's no wonder it's hurting you."

"What is it?" he asked tentatively. "I…I was unconscious when he did it. What has he done to me?" I sat up on my elbows and met his gaze.

"The truth? He takes a load of ingredients including dragon blood and various other things and he mixes it with his own blood to form a dye. He then slashes the skin off your arm and draws the Dark Mark onto your raw flesh with the dye. Then he says a spell under his breath which only he knows the exact words of and the skin forms over the Mark again."

"That's what he did to you?" Potter asked, astonished. I winced, remembering those cool fingers tracing themselves over my agonisingly tender flesh.

"Yes. It's what he'll have done to you too." He shuddered.

"And there's no way to undo it?" I blinked.

"To be honest I haven't actually tried. But when you sliced at it, it grew back didn't it?"

"Yes." He licked his lips. "I've tried other ways, Draco."

"Such as?"

"I tried cutting it off again… when I was in bed. None of you knew. But then it grew back again. When it healed. It healed really fast." I sighed.

"Why do you have to be so damnably brave and so very very silly, Potter? Is it a criterion for being heroic or something? If your blade had slipped you could have cut an artery!"

"Well, I didn't," he said irritably. "And then I tried to exorcise it…"

"You tried to exorcise your arm?" I yelped. "How stupid are you? People have died during exorcisms!"

"Well, _I _didn't!" he snapped. "Are you going to continue acting like a parent? Because if so I'm leaving." I laughed, rolling onto my back on the floor.

"Oh, now, don't be offended. It's your fault for being terminally foolish." He looked slightly upset.

"That's it. I'm off."

"Ouch! Does the truth sting then?" I teased. He growled.

"Why is talking to you so damn infuriating?" I snorted, rolling over so that I was staring straight up at him. As he watched, I raised my eyebrows.

"Because try as you might you can never hope to match my intelligence and wit. And it hurts."

"I'm not in the mood for games," he snapped, turning on his heel. "If anyone asks I've gone out." I shrugged as he flounced out, then winced as the portrait in the hallway started shrieking at him.

"Do you have to wake up the whole house just for the sake of a dramatic exit?" I yelled after him. He swore, and I heard him wrench the curtain across the picture. Her voice subsided and the front door slammed.

I sat up and surveyed the empty drawing room, bored. The silence was oppressive, smothering me, and I had this strange compulsion to go and check on the people asleep. I don't know why. I suppose I was just nosey and fed up and I needed something to do. I climbed the stairs and gently pushed open Weasley R's door.

He snores.

I had to fight the urge to snigger. He was so ungainly, sprawled across the bed with his long arms flung out like a gibbon in his stripy pyjamas. Just like some sort of animal, with the air rattling in and out as he noisily proclaimed to the world that he lived. I could have stopped that in an instant. I could have raised my wand and whispered one curse or I could have picked up the spare pillow on the floor and pressed it down on that hated face. In a second it would be over. But everyone would know it was me. Quietly I closed the door and tried the next one.

Granger slept far more delicately. Her breathing was deep and soft, her sparse chest rising and falling in time. She hadn't even bothered changing, just fallen on the bed. It was amazing, the thrill of power I felt, watching these people sleep. They had no idea, no idea at all that I was there and I could do anything. I could attack them if I wanted; I could hurt them. Softly I closed the door, before my bad impulses ruled me. The last thing I needed now was to give the highly strung crew an excuse to start a spot of Draco baiting.

The third door I opened on that landing was that of the Weasley girl's room. She snuffled in her sleep and I went cautiously, anxious not to wake her. As I watched she rolled to the left slightly, and then fell back to her original position, muttering to herself. I left her to the grip of whatever nightmares ensnared through her mind, remembering my terrible dream the night before, and progressed silently to the next floor. Sliding open the door I suddenly jumped as the figure on the bed moved and sat up.

"Who's there?" he asked, his voice hoarse. I froze, indecisive. Should I run or go forward? He blinked muzzily and I stepped back. The movement startled him and he cringed back. "No…Don't!" He whimpered and raised his arms above his head. Instantly I stepped forward, my voice soothing.

"Easy, easy. It's just me."

"Who?" he begged.

"Mal-," I stopped, not wanting to scare him. "Draco. It's Draco."

"Draco?" George whispered. He blinked his red-rimmed again and looked around. "Where am I? Where's Fred?"

"He's…" I paused, not certain how to continue. But he said it for me.

"No! I remember now. He's dead!" His face paled and I could see the terror lurking in his eyes as I drew closer, shutting the door behind me.

"You're safe now," I murmured reassuringly.

"He's gone. Fred… is gone."

"Yes. But it's over now." I had reached the bed now and he suddenly reached out and grabbed my shirt front.

"Malfoy! Do something for me!" I read his eyes.

"No."

"You don't know what I want!"

"Yes I do."

"It's a small request," he said bitterly, tears filling his eyes, his hands balling into fists in the material of my t-shirt.

"No it's not," I said gently. "And I will not."

"Please!" he cried.

"Why me?"

"Because you… You hate me! I can ask you to do it."

"Can't you even say it?" I asked softly. "Can't you even form the words?" He struggled to force them out.

"I w-want…"

"What?"

"I want you to k-kill me!" He looked panic-stricken, his face white, tears leaking from his eyes.

"I can't. Too many people are counting on you to live," I told him.

"Without Fred!" he wailed.

"Would he want you to die too?"

"You don't understand," he yelled. "You don't understand at all! Can't you see? Th-they were in my m-mind and I tried to fight them, I tried, I _tried_ but He was t-too strong and He m-made me lift my hand with the wand and say the words and then F-fred…" I placed my hand on his lips and met his eyes.

"You don't want to complete that sentence."

"B-but I did it! It's _true_." I pulled out my wand and he eyed it hungrily.

"No," I whispered. "Not any more. _Obliviate!_"


End file.
